


Alex and Ivar's Freaky Friday

by chibisgotovalhalla



Category: Vikings (TV), Vikings (TV) RPF
Genre: Alex and Ivar swap places, Gets gory in places, like freaky friday the film, set in modern times and fictional Viking Kattegat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibisgotovalhalla/pseuds/chibisgotovalhalla
Summary: Alex Høgh Andersen is upset that his acting career on the Vikings series is coming to an end.One night, during an unusual storm, he begs the gods to make things right for his TV character, Ivar the Boneless.Meanwhile, Ivar the Boneless lies bleeding on the battlefield. As his life passes out of him, he begs the gods to erase all his evils and make them right.When the two men awaken, they realise their world has changed beyond comprehension.
Comments: 36
Kudos: 50





	1. Hammer of Thor

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written by me in 2019 but was not finished. I deleted my tumblr blog and took a hiatus for a while. The story is now finished, remodelled and updated. I'll be posting 1-2 chapters a week as it's a looong fic.

Alex Høgh Andersen clutched his own doom in his hand.

He'd dreaded this moment for months. The letter from Michael Hirst confirmed that the television show he’d worked on for five years had come to an end. Vikings would not film for a seventh season. The eighty-ninth episode would be the last.

 _I wish you all the best for the rest of your career. It has been a real privilege to work with you on this amazing show,_ the director signed off the letter _._

The news had shaken everyone, but Alex Høgh was downright devastated. The young actor had made his name as Ivar the Boneless. The crippled Viking character had been the accelerant behind his career. For the past few years his face had been on commercials and billboards. Now he was out of work. He’d have to rely on his agent to look for a new job, and in the meantime try not to fall into the abyss.

Alex stared out of the window of his top-floor apartment. It overlooked the seventeenth-century harbour in the district of Christianshaven, Copenhagen. The blackened sky was heavy with dark clouds and raindrops hammered off the glass. In the distance, thunder crashed and rumbled as a freak storm rolled in towards land. The violent pitch and toss of the waves were highlighted by the bright lights of the promenade.

The weather matched the tumult that raged inside him. Alex felt like one of those miniature boats they used on the set of Vikings, thrown around by fierce stormy seas. Where would he go now? What would he fill his life with? Would he even be able to find a role as perfect as Ivar the Boneless?

Questions stacked up on questions. He could answer none of them. Trying made him feel queasy.

On the street below, a young man sped across the street and ducked inside the nearest bar. Alex didn’t like staying home on Friday nights, but tonight he didn’t have the stomach to go out. Tonight, he would stay in and mourn the loss of his fictional counterpart.

As he lowered the blind a vicious flash of lightening split the clouds. Thunder followed it a few seconds later. The storm approached fast, and Alex was glad to be inside.

His bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, had a quintessential Scandinavian aesthetic. White walls with creamy carpet, a large bed with a black steel frame and white cotton sheets. Two large bookcases contained his books and a few choice personal effects. The room was minimalistic, just how Alex liked it.

Before making the decision to hit the hay early, Alex picked up his phone from the small, white nightstand. The screen lit up with a text message from his best friend and colleague Marco Ilsø. _Ex-colleague_ , Alex remembered with a scowl.

**_Marco: Hey man, are you all right?_ **

Alex and Marco had spent time that afternoon discussing the fateful letter. Both were sad that Vikings had come to an end, and Alex confided in his friend about the emptiness he felt. Marco suggested it might do them both good to go out and down a few Sambucas. But Alex had refused, admitting he felt too dark and anguished to drink.

**_Alex: Yeah, I guess. Are you out in the storm?_ **

**_Marco: Noooo. Safe and sound in the bar with my three friends. Vodka, Tequila and Sambuca ask if you’ll join us._ **

**_Alex: Haha! Tell them thank you from me. Another time. We still on for tomorrow, right?_ **

**_Marco: Yeah. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Cya, dude._ **

Alex thought he should put the letter out of sight and try to move on. But for some reason he was unable to part with it yet. He reread it for the fifteenth time since it arrived that morning. The words hadn’t changed. His brain knew them by heart now, and he didn’t need to look at the crisp sheet of paper to know what they said.

He folded it and set it on his nightstand, relaxing on the bed. The storm now raged overhead. The lightening that flew by lit up his room bright as daytime. The storm would likely keep him awake, but either way, he knew he couldn’t sleep after receiving the awful news.

Alex turned to on his side unable to close his eyes. Lightning flashed again. It illuminating his Thor’s hammer pendant which had once been part of Ivar’s costume. The one Alex owned was the original from his first stint as Ivar. The leather cord had broken during filming one of the famous battle scenes. The props manager had asked Alex if he wanted it as a keepsake and Alex snatched the opportunity. He’d replaced the cord with a cheap silver chain so it wouldn't break again. The hammer now hung from the lamp on his nightstand. Alex like to see it at night before he slept, and first thing each morning when he woke.

He grabbed the pendant and held it in the palm of his hand, once again admiring its many accurate details. He’d never have the chance to wear it again, he told himself. At least not as part of Ivar’s costume. He slipped it around his neck sometimes when going out with friends. It carried so many fond memories.

He closed his fingers around the pendant and held it to his heart. A single tear escaped his right eye. He wiped it away, feeling both helpless and embarrassed. As the thunder rumbled again, Alex thought of all the times he’d rebuked his on-screen “brothers”. He scolded them in character for any outward show of emotion.

Thor would laugh at me if he saw me crying, Alex thought, which made him smile.

Without realising why, Alex spoke aloud to the god of thunder, addressing him in a prayer:

‘Thor, I know you’re not real. I know Ivar isn't real. But if he was, Ivar would be outside in the storm right now. He'd sacrifice all his goats and his slaves to you because he wouldn’t want what we had to end. I don’t have anything to sacrifice, but I'd give the rest of my career to Ivar if it was possible for Vikings to continue. I promise I’d find a way to make all Ivar’s evil deeds right. Even though he’s an idiot, I’d help him turn things around. There are so many things I want to change about the end. Please don’t leave him there on the battle field. He deserves so much more.’

An incredible flash lit the room, stronger and brighter than all the others. In less than a second the roar of thunder echoed in his ears. Alex shook his head.

‘Why the fuck am I talking to myself?’

He hung the pendant back in its place on the lamp and turned off the light. He lay face down and pulled his duvet over his head, blocking out the storm and the blackness he felt in his belly.


	2. As Ivar Lay Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissues at the ready, as Ivar meets his end in Hvitserk's arms. There are no Valkyries, only the baying of Helja's hounds and the anger of Thor's thunder...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried re-writing this scene. I changed it to fit the ending of 6B. Before it mirrored Alex's story, falling to sleep praying to Thor. I hope you like it. More to follow in the coming days!

Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Loðbrok, King of Kattegat, lay dying in the arms of his brother.

He knew he was dying, there was no doubt about it. The Saxon knife pierced his armour a dozen times and gutted him like a fish. According to Ivar’s calculating mind, the human body was a fleshy sack. The sack contained blood and a few organs. They were in there, but in no order. If you cut open the bag, the blood and organs fell out.

Ivar's fingers pressed against the wounds. Warm, sticky. His throat was heavy and full of blood. It spluttered between his lips when he turned his head to look up. His eyes met with the distraught eyes of his brother, Hvitserk.

At first Ivar couldn't feel anything. His brain saw the oncoming attack caused by pain and rallied a shield wall of shock. The shield wall formed in his mind stopped him from feeling his open guts and the snapping of both legs as he fell on the battlefield. His thoughts were sharp, but they didn’t make sense. He was cold, but he didn’t shiver.

It was only when his brother’s arm scooped underneath him that his brain issued the command for the imaginary shield wall to stand down. The shock wore off and he felt everything. He vulnerable.

Ivar could count on one hand the times in his life that he was vulnerable.

_He looked up… all the way up… to the smiling face of the man with the beard._

_‘Ivar, this is Harbard. You remember Harbard, don’t you?’_

_Ah, his mother’s voice. Soft… soothing._

_‘Harbard is going to take the pain away, my dear Ivar. Hold still. Hush, hush. Let it happen.’_

_He allowed the big man to scoop him up in weathered hands. The smell of the forest on his hair, the scent of warm spiced wine on his breath. Little Ivar liked this man. He liked him because his mother loved him. That’s how he understood that it was alright to let his anger go, to stop crying through the pain._

_Because him mother loved Harbard._

_Because his mother loved him._

_‘I don’t want to be in here,’ Ivar said. ‘I want to be out there!’_

_‘Ivar,’ Aslaug growled. She didn’t often use a stern voice with him. But Ivar noticed she used it a lot more as he grew older._

_The day of his tenth name day started well. The gifts from his mother and brothers came as they did each year on this day. This year, his oldest brother Bjorn gifted him a dagger. Ivar was so eager to get outside and practice with it, that he pulled himself up to his feet. There came no warning. No blue eyes or weakened joints. Only the snapping of his left leg breaking in two like a dry twig._

_‘It will need to be set,’ Helga said. ‘But to do that, I will need to push the bones back inside his skin. I will need someone strong to hold the bones together while I wrap the leg.’_

_This day was the first time one of Ivar’s brothers saw his gnarled, emaciated legs. The only person on hand that Aslaug trusted to do exactly as she said was Ubbe. Ubbe was a man. He had an armring and spoke with authority that Ivar couldn’t yet master._

_Ivar tried to resist, tried to fight the entire room of attendants so Ubbe wouldn't see his crippled legs. Aslaug hushed and soothed him down to the sling bed. And once again Ivar yielded. Ubbe’s hands pressed down painfully on Ivar's snapped bones. Not matter how Ivar roared, Ubbe held them together for an agonising eternity._

_So long as Aslaug's hand was on his brow, Ivar could tolerate it. And he learned that day he could trust Ubbe. Ubbe would not let him down._

_The cabin turned upside down as Ubbe heaved Ivar over his shoulder. It was an undignified entrance into manhood, but so long as Ivar lost his virginity, he didn’t care how he got there._

_The room righted itself when Ubbe dropped him onto his arse on the bed. Next to Margrethe. So close he could smell her cheap scented oils and… fear._

_Fear. She wasn’t supposed to be frightened of him. She was supposed to be happy and relaxed, like she was with Ivar's brothers. Tears blurred Ivar’s eyes as he looked up into the proud expression of Ubbe. Ubbe… a real man. One who didn’t cry when he was left alone with a slave._

_Ragnar: his father, his hero._

_Ivar had never forgotten the look of bold resolve on Ragnar's face the day the Saxon's dragged him away. As they pulled him from the room, Ivar knew Ragnar was stubborn enough to let them kill him._

_Be ruthless…_

_The words rung in Ivar’s ears as the Saxon guards manhandled him to the cart that wheeled him to the boat. Days at sea followed. They offered him no food and only sips of weakened ale, which came back up overboard and left him reeking of vomit._

_He was not aware when the boat docked at Kattegat. Only that Ubbe’s strong hands lifted him from the sea bench at the back of the deck. And there was Sigurd, strong also, and supportive. He hated Sigurd. Not for any reason other than he looked like Aslaug. He had her blonde curly hair and her blue eyes. Where had Ivar’s black hair come from? He sported Ragnar’s grey eyes but none of his features. And none of Aslaug’s either._

_Feet on solid ground dragged behind him as he clung to the shoulders of his brothers. He came alive again as he told the saga of Ragnar's heroics, only to fall slain by Sigurd’s statement:_

_‘Mother is dead.’_

_Sigurd… Sigurd… It was Sigurd’s fault, no matter what they told him. Sigurd could have stopped it. Sigurd hated their mother enough to let her die._

_‘Ivar you are a god.’_

_The consequent memories blended together. She was blonde — Freydis – and raven of hair — Katia. Two in one… two in one… two becoming one…_

_Baldur. The baby in the chest…_

_His son…_

_Not his son._

_Ivar did not want to hurt the baby. Even though he hadn’t fathered him, he always called him ‘son’. Ivar loved him for nine full moons before he came into existence. A tiny boy with a twisted body and a broken face._

_His hand reached into the bag and took out the bones that made up the torso. Some ribs were crooked. The spine curved in an odd way._

_The boy would never stand, never eat or drink. He was too disfigured._

_Ivar placed these bones into the ossuary first, followed by the bones of the limbs. He placed the tiny skull in last. It had the soft spot on the crown that weakened all newborns. The bone below the nose was split in half. The midwife said Baldur would never suckle._

_The lower jaw of the skull was still connected with a pinkish bony mass he couldn’t identify. All his life, Ivar’s brilliant mind had thirsted to understand the human body. Its bowels and inner workings mystified him. He was sure that by examining it, one day he would find a way to fix his legs._

_Examining Baldur’s body did not seem right. Ivar laid the small skull in the ossuary on top of the other bones. His callused fingers caressed the face with all the tenderness of a new father._

_A father. He was a father, regardless._

_On the windy hill, he’d spoken these words:_

_“Baldur, my son. It shouldn't end like this. I should not have to kill you. Still, I don't apologize for it. My own life of suffering is sometimes beyond what I can handle, and you are much more crippled than me. See, I do it for you. Not to make your mother suffer, as she would like you to believe. I love you, and I love your mother. Maybe one day I'll be able to forgive her for what she has done to us.”_

_And forgive her he did. As soon as she saw her again, resurrected like a Christ-miracle in Kiev. Katia. Katia. So full of life and beauty. Nobody else could see that she was Freydis incarnate. They were the same woman. He loved them both the same. His broken cock stirred to life in her mouth. She rode him like Margrethe rode Ubbe. Finally a man who sowed his seed. A real father at last… and how it grieved him to know that his child would live without knowing his true heritage. Without ever hearing the names of Ragnar or Aslaug. Or Odin or Loki or Thor…_

Thor.

Behind Hvitserk’s head lightening split the sky. Ivar the Boneless had fallen and now the gods came to mock him. The thunderous crack exploded overhead. Hvitserk didn’t seem to notice it, and neither did the other warriors who stood silently all around.

Ivar heard it. And it terrified him.

Thunderstorms never frightened Ivar before. Floki raised him with the knowledge that thunder was a sign of Thor’s protection. His lightning illuminated to sky to show the people of Kattegat that the gods were pleased with them. But Kattegat had fallen many times since Ivar’s childhood. And Ivar had done many bad things. Things that dishonoured the names of his heroes.

_He tightened the cord around her neck and dropped down onto his back. Freydis gasped and twitched on top of him. Despite being a cripple, Ivar’s upper-body strength was comparable to the gods’. It came from all the dragging and crawling he did to get around. She batted at him weakly, an insect against a muscled boar. He felt the moment her life went out of her. She became heavy. The gasping stopped. Her stillness was statuesque. This was all Ivar was good for — killing._

_Regret. Pain._

_Remorse._

Lightening flared a second time. The thunder rode right on its back with a furious roar.

Thor is coming! Ivar thought. Thor is coming to cast his judgement on me. I am weak and I am broken. There are no Valkyries to summon me home.

Ivar was afraid. The pain seared and burned. Broken legs, split stomach, heartache. Blood welled up into the back of his throat and drowned him.

Devastation wrought Hvitserk’s face. He wept as he caressed his younger brother, and Ivar broke down. There was one person in all the world who had not betrayed him. There was one person in all the world who had followed him to the ends of Midgard. And there was one person there at the end to weep for Ivar’s death. Only one. And it meant the world to him.

Death, the end, came quickly. And so did the gods and their judgement.

The landscape opened up in front of him like the coming of Ragnarok. Helvegen, the road to Hel, lay before him. The hounds of Helheim bayed for his blood.

Ivar tried to beg Hvitserk not to let them take him. He was too young. It was too soon. There were so many things to add to his saga. But the pooling blood in the back of his throat choked him, and the air wouldn’t come when he gasped.

‘I’m afraid. I’m afraid!’ he blurted between gurgles of welling blood.

The last of Hvitserk’s strength faded and his walls broke down with floods of tears. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

That was all he needed to hear. In the end, no one would know that Ivar the Boneless was a snivelling coward. He wanted to say thank you to his brother. Or I love you. But he faded fast. The hounds of Helja were on him.

The last thing Ivar saw was three bright bolts of lightning flash like fire above him. The crashes of Thor's anger immediately pursued, as the god stuck his anvil with the mighty Mjolnir. As his vision grew black, Midgard split in two. With his final breaths, Ivar muttered a prayer deep in his heart:

‘I have incurred your wrath, Mighty Thor. I have lived dishonestly. I betrayed my brothers and they all left me. All except Hvitserk who weeps for my death even though I killed Thora. I have betrayed Ragnar’s name and Ragnar’s people. But I can change. I want to change. And so I ask you, Asa-Thor, Atli, Vingþorr, don’t send me to Hel, I don’t belong there. I am not a god. I am not like you. The hounds of Hel will consume me.’

And with that, the world ceased to be. And Ivar the Boneless died.


	3. Quiet on Set!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex wakes up in a strange and surreal place!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part hasn't changed much from the original. I've tightened the writing and made it more readable.

Alex Høgh Andersen woke from the best sleep of his life. Soft furs wrapped around his body as he stretched on the gigantic wooden bed. He relaxed with a sigh, his eyes still closed. He was warm and snug in his bedroom that was too hot. But since the bed was comfortable and he wasn’t quite awake, he didn't want to get up and adjust the thermostat. Instead, he rolled over and buried his head under a lumpy pillow.

As Alex came to, he realised that several things about his surroundings were not quite right. For a start, the sheets stank.

_Didn’t I change the sheets a couple of days ago? And what’s with the stench in this room?_

The room had a musky odour. A strange mix of old wood, wet dog and smoke.

_Is the place on fire?_ He thought. Then added _, Nah, I bet it's the stink of cigarettes on my jacket. I’ll toss it in the wash later, after the bedding_.

The sounds around the apartment were strange, too. He was pretty sure it was late-morning, judging by how well he’d slept. Cars should have been roaring beneath his windows by this house. The grumble of busses and the honks of city traffic should have found him beneath the pile of pillows and fur.

Life outside sounded strange and quiet and loud at the same time. There were no rumbling engines, but a myriad other sounds. Clumping horse hooves in the mud. The incessant howl of a dog. Hens clucking up a storm. Hundreds of voices chatted, chuckled and shouted all around. The voices of a large crowd.

Punctuating all these noises was the pounding of a hammer hitting metal.

The sound reminded Alex of the blacksmiths on the set of Vikings. At first it was soothing and familiar. But then he remembered the letter and the fact shooting had finished weeks ago.

Or had it? Was it possible that he’d dreamt that Vikings was over? It must have been a nightmare because that bang, bang, tink was for sure the sound of a hammer on metal.

Alex almost fell from the bed as he rushed to get up.

‘Shit! Oh, shit! I fell asleep during the shoot. Fuck! I’m sorry, everyone. Are we ready to roll?’

Alex looked around for the crew. His heart skipped when he discovered the room was empty. Where was the director? His assistant? The camera man, the sound guy with his long pole and fluffy boom?

Across the room from the huge bed with its carved, growling animal heads, a flames crackled from a firepit. On the walls, realistic oil sconces painted the room in warm, yellow tones.

‘Hey, is anyone there? Hey, hello?’ Alex did not receive an answer.

_Shit, I fell asleep and they all went home. Is this some sort of joke?_

Alex leapt from the bed. His bare feet hit the wooden floor and the flesh of his muscular legs pimpled with cold. Upon looking down he realised he was clad only in his boxers and a white tee.

_I’m not even in costume! How the hell did this happen?_

Convinced it was all an elaborate prank, Alex looked around for the hidden camera.

_Somewhere around here there’s got to be one of the guys filming this with a phone_.

He looked up for any erstwhile pranksters above him. Alex saw the thatch and beams that formed the underside of a roof instead of the open ceiling of a TV set.

_When did they build that? Where’s the studio lighting?_

On one wall was a mock window shutter that remained closed during filming. On the other side of it was a small hallway between sets that led to a small kitchen. Between takes, the nice girls who worked in there passed him cups of coffee through the fake shutter. He guessed the crew were hiding out there.

Alex strained to hear the usual noises of the crew laughing and arguing between takes. But there was no familiar chatter in that mix of English and Irish accents he had grown used to. There came only the sounds of everyday life in an ancient Nordic town.

_What the fuck? Background noise is usually added in post-production._

Alex ripped open the shutter hoping for an explanation. Instead of the familiar hallway and miles of electric cabling, he saw Kattegat as seen by viewers on TV. People dressed as peasants bustled by afraid to look at him.

_‘What the hell…?’_

Across the market square, Alex saw Marco Ilsø in costume playing Hvitserk. He perused the goods on offer, slipping his hand into a pouch to pull out some coins. It looked like they were filming after all! But if this was the case, where was all the film crew?

_I’ve got to get some answers_.

Alex rushed to the door. He expected to find the corridors that lead between all the different sets of the Great Hall. Instead, he found several other rooms furnished much like the bedroom. He pressed on, working his way through a large and impressive Norse building.

In one of the rooms he found a blonde woman dressed in costume drinking pungent-smelling ale. He stopped in the doorway, hoping to see some other members of the _Vikings_ team. The woman sat alone.

‘Alicia?’ he asked, addressing who he thought was the woman playing his on-screen wife.

The woman looked up in surprise, giving him a shocked up-and-down glare. ‘Hvat segir þú?’

She spoke in Old Norse, which took Alex aback. ‘Uh, Alicia, hold up. We need to take a break from the script, if that’s even in there. I’m not in costume, I just woke up. I fell asleep on-set and I can’t find anybody who knows what’s going on—’

‘Hvat?’ the woman cut him off. ‘Ek skil þik eigi.’

‘Alicia, please, I’m being serious. I need to take a break so I can find out what I’m supposed to be doing. Where I’m supposed to be?’ Alex grew frustrated when she stared at him blankly. She babbled a response in Old Norse.

Alex glanced around again. No cameras or directors. Just Alicia Agneson… or who the thought was Alicia. She didn’t seem to recognise him.

As he crossed the room in a huff to exit on the other side, the woman exclaimed, _‘IVAR!’_ in a loud, surprised voice. Looking at him in shock, she pointed to the lower half of his body. ‘Þu leggr!’

From his lessons in Old Norse given to him by the languages director on set, Alex recognised both of those words. He glanced down at his bare legs, realising that Alicia had a good view of a certain outline in his boxers. He covered himself with both hands. ‘Can we break character and be serious for two minutes please? And when did you learn so much Old Norse that you can go at it ad-lib?’

Again she stared at him, lacking understanding. The confused pinch to her brows convinced him that she didn’t know what was going on. And those noises filtering in from off-set were all too real. His head spun and a he felt a little sick. This all seemed way beyond the jokes the cast played on one another. It was even more elaborate than the best of Travis Fimmel’s pranks.

The blonde woman — Alicia, he hoped — approached him studying his legs. Both were muscular and strong. Not like his character’s twisted, weak limbs. She babbled at him once again in her own strange tongue, then she tugged on the hem of his shirt. The expression on her face told him she’d never seen this type of garment before.

Alex pushed her hand away, not ready to believe this wasn’t who he thought she was. ‘Ok. Alright. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will. He left the room and navigated the long, dark corridors coming to a stop at the lofty drinking hall.

Extras dressed in costume filled the room — Ivar’s favourite warriors. Scarred, gnarly men ate and drank and chatted in Old Norse.

‘When did we get the budget to teach them all foreign languages,’ Alex muttered under his breath.

At the sound of his voice a warrior turned to see Alex _standing_ there, half-naked and without any help. ‘Ivar Konungr!’ he cried in shock.

Thirty heads belonging to men and women all snapped to Alex’s location. The actor had never felt so embarrassed in front of a crowd in his life.

The same warrior pointed to his legs and garbled something in Old Norse. Alex picked out the words ‘Ivar’ and ‘leggr’, and he guessed the context.

The blonde woman appeared next to him. The warrior exclaimed ‘Freydis Dróttning!’ Queen Freydis, Alex understood. He then continued on about Alex's legs.

‘No, guys, wait. I’m not in costume. Please, I’m not ready. Why are you all speaking Old Norse? Speak English!’

‘Ænglisc!’ a different man growled. He spat on the floor at Alex’s feet then insulted the Saxons using a few strong Norse words that Alex knew.

Several more warriors gathered around him. They muttered, pointed, and scratched their heads. They smacked Alex’s thighs with their palms, testing how sturdy his legs were. Alex allowed them their fun with a heavy sigh and gritted teeth. They conferred with one another. Then one man raised his fist and started a chant: ‘Heill, Ivar Konungr! Heill, Ivar Konungr! Heill, Ivar Konungr!’

The chants grew in a wave around the hall until every man there had joined in. The women were much more cautious. They stared at him in fear, awe and wonder.

_This is not right…_

Swallowing hard, Alex trembled. The excitement in the room rose as men thumped their fists off tables, stamped their feet and swilled ale. The scene in front of him was all too real. As was the smell of unwashed bodies, urine, pungent food laced with garlic and onions…

The atmosphere on set had never been this real. The sights, the smells, the use of authentic costumes and language. It wasn’t right. It was seriously wrong.

Alex's instincts told him to run. And he did, disregarding his bare feet. He tore through the drinking hall to a riotous applause of the warriors who chanted his name ever louder. He pushed open the heavy oak door and ran for his life, toes squelching through the streets of Kattegat.


	4. What Fresh New Hel...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar awakens from death to a strange place indeed. But will Hvitserk have any answers?

The soft mattress supported Ivar’s back and legs, meaning for once in his life he woke without pain. He stretched and yawned, eyes still shut. The smooth, soft sheets swaddled around him. They were of a very fine weave. No itchy fur or wool, but cool soft fabric lighter than linen.

 _Freydis is trying to get back in my good graces,_ he thought.

Then Muninn assaulted his mind with a million memories. His entire life rolled before his eyes in a moment’s vision flash when a battering assault took hold of his mind. It was more than he could take, a flight of arrows piercing his skull like the daggers that ripped his guts apart.

The lay of his life confused him. The only thing he made proper sense of was that he wasn’t dead. He should be dead, but he was not.

He opened his eyes to a dim room. There was no fire or whale oil lanterns but the room was warm. From beyond the walls monstrous rumblings shook his core.

There was enough light for Ivar to see his unfamiliar surroundings. He sat up and as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the smooth walls, the wooden shelves full of strange objects, the metal-framed bed, and the sheets which were puffy and white, like clouds.

Ivar’s heart lurched in his chest.

‘Odin’s bollocks!’ he whispered. ‘I’m dead and I’ve woken up in Hel.’

It was the only clear explanation for what he saw. Floki had taught him that Éljúðnir, Hel’s hall, was half blue and half white. Everything in this room was colourless — from the ceiling to the floor. The cold, metal frame that supported the mattress must be Kör, Helja’s “sickbed”. Those deep-throated rumbles coming from outside were monsters roaming the abyss.

Ivar the Boneless slid from the bed onto the soft cream mat. He ruffled the shaggy pile with his fingers then stroked it with his palm. He had never seen a floor mat like it before. The fibres were softer and more luxurious than those that padded Saxon king's feet in the royal villa. Much warmer than the sheepskins which covered the benches of the Great Hall of Kattegat. And yet, it was much thinner.

He bent his head to the matting and sniffed it. He expected to detect the odours of muddy boots, animals, human excrement. And yet it didn’t smell of anything, only… clean. And lemony… Yes, a slight scent of lemons freshened the floor mat.

Ivar growled and looked around him. Everything was strange, mysterious. He crawled over to a wooden shelf and pawed through the objects. He pulled off a bundle of bound parchments and flipped through the leaves. Tiny foreign runes covered them that. The ink was purest black against stark white. What use did it have?

He dropped it and picked up another. The leaves of this bundle of parchment were shiny — a sort-of vellum? — painted with brilliant colours. Bright dyes in so many shades that he couldn’t imagine what process would produce such a variety. And the images themselves were so real and lifelike.

The people in the pictures did impossible things. They wore strange clothes, sat on strange two-wheeled chariots, or held onto instruments that he couldn’t identify. One was like an oud, but with a longer neck. How were these images created — by magic?

He dropped the bundle next to the first one. He pulled off others, finding they were much the same. The leaves of the parchments were either painted brightly or scribbled all over in tiny runes.

Further up was a strange object that caught Ivar’s attention. He used the shelves to pull himself to his feet so that he could reach it. It was a heavy rectangle with a long cylinder protruding from one side. It was solid and made from a strange material — smooth like metal, but soft like wood. He looked it over. On the flat side was a small piece of polished glass next to which were several small, round bumps that depressed when he poked them. The long, cylindrical part was also capped with a disc of glass.

‘What is this…?’

Attached to either side of the rectangular part was a long belt painted with runes that read CANON EOS 4000.

Although it was heavy enough to do some damage if swung by the belt, Ivar thought that it couldn’t be a weapon because it was partially made of glass. Instead, he decided it must be some sort of talisman. He fiddled with the belt until it unhooked from the object and buckled it around his waist. Though he didn’t understand its use, the object looked expensive and rare, and so he claimed it.

He lowered himself to the soft mat and crawled over to the large wooden chest. It had two doors on the front and was large enough for a person to enter. When he tugged on the doors they revealed an impossible number of garments hanging from a metal pipe. So many garments, in fact, that Ivar thought whoever owned them must be extremely rich. He had not owned this much clothing in his entire life.

‘Well, this is a waste of space,’ he muttered. ‘Why don’t they fold these garments and put them in a smaller chest. It would take less space.’

Reaching out he tugged on a few of the garments and they fell to the floor. Above his head the black objects they’d fallen from rattled off each other. They connected to the metal hanging pipe with a hook.

‘This is very strange.’

The garments themselves were the most impractical and unnecessary designs. There was tunic whose sleeves were so short they did not reach the elbow. Another was completely open down the front and had little pegs that held it together. The fabrics were lighter than linen — he would freeze to death wearing them.

A pair of blue breeks made of a rough, robust fabric with solid stitching were far more practical. He could wear them below his armour on the battlefield. The same could be said of a tunic with long sleeves and a hood. Its fluffy lining would be effective against the cold. But what were the runes emblazoned on the front? SUPREME. Did they mean anything?

The rest of the clothes were too thin and were probably for sleeping in. An axe or sword would cut through them as easily as Floki’s ships passed through water. And yet, when he held them up, they were his exact fit. So were the shoes he found on the bottom of the chest. Sturdy and well-made, though he didn’t approve of the lacing or that they bore yet more runes.

One pair of shoes bore the inscription _CONVERSE_.

Another, _NIKE_.

Looking for a sword belt or baldric among the mess of fabric, Ivar made a startling realisation: he had no weapons.

‘Where are my war picks?’ He looked around searching for anything — an axe, sword, or a dagger. There were no weapons in the room.

Ivar trembled. Armed to the teeth he had once been invincible. That was until an unknown Saxon war pig stuck him in the guts a dozen times. He had no idea what enemies he would face here. Stripped of his weapons he felt uncomfortable, naked, and dangerously exposed.

A loud growl came through the walls. It then emitted a loud high-pitched _BEEEEEEEPPPP_ that Ivar had never heard before. The growl and the new noise deafened him.

‘By all the gods!’ Ivar covered his ears with his hands, making the thud of his heart on his ribs seem louder.

Attached to the wall was a fabric shutter that let a little daylight in around the edges. Ivar crawled in its direction and pulled it aside. Behind it, recessed into the wall, was a large piece of glass which revealed a cloudy sky. He could also see the pointed roof of a red stone building.

‘Where am I? This can’t be Hel.’

Ivar grunted to his feet using the ledge in the wall to pull himself up. He supported his weight with his muscular arms, but soon found himself clutching on to the wall so he would not fall when he looked down.

‘Gods! How high is this?’

He looked out from the glass pane, higher than he’d ever been in his life. The streets below bustled with people. They dressed like the vivid paintings in the bundles of parchment. The wide lane heaved with metal carts that made loud, horrible noises. Beyond the row of stone buildings, a huge metal ship sailed on the water. It was completely enclosed like a floating building, with a deck on top. It moved tremendously fast, but Ivar couldn’t see its oars.

‘That’s a huge bloody warship!’

A latch connected the pane of glass to the wall. After some fiddling Ivar managed to push it on its hinges. The noise that flooded in was monstrous and confusing. One of the strange two-wheel carts he’d seen in the bundle of paintings thundered by. It hurt Ivar’s ears and resounded in his chest, rattling his ribcage.

‘What kind of creatures have they harnessed to get them to move so fast?’

They had to be monsters. Horses didn’t sound like that.

The people, the buildings — everything was a mystery. Bustling so fast below him, watching the world turned his stomach and made him feel seasick.

Ivar closed the glass shutter. It didn’t silence all the noise, but much of it was cut off. He dropped back to the floor and crawled to the bed, leaning against the metal frame. He needed time to think.

Minutes rolled by. He couldn’t think of a single solution. There was a chest next to the bed. Hanging from a metal and glass object was a Mjolnir suspended from a magnificent silver chain. The more he looked at it, the more he realised that it wasn’t any pendant — it was his pendant!

He reached over to take it when a small rectangle of glass came to life. It emitted a shrill beep and buzzed like a furious hornet. Staring at him from the surface was the image of his brother Hvitserk.

Ivar screamed in fear. He snatched and it shook violently in his hands. With a roar, he tossed it across the room. It bounced from the wall and hit the soft floor mat, but it did not shut up. The thing stayed angry for a long time before falling silent.

‘Such evil spirits inhabit this place. Odin! Odin, help me!’

Ivar covered his face with both hands. He sat helpless for the longest time, until the pace of his ragged breath slowed and he was able to think clearly.

 _I have to find out what that thing was, what evil magic possesses it_. _Be a man, Ivar, son of Ragnar_.

Steeled by his own thoughts, Ivar crawled back over to the angry rectangle and picked it up. The thing was dead now, and its dark panel reflected his image. He turned it over to the metal side to look for clues. It was etched with an image of an apple that someone had taken a bite from. Below this were runes so small they must have been carved by dwarves. They made no sense.

Turning it back over, he saw a small circle big enough for the tip of his thumb. When he pressed it, the glass lit up again. Ivar dropped it and crawled away. He didn’t know what manner of thing he messed with — or how the thing intended to mess with him.

‘I have to get out of this place. I have to find other people. Someone has to be here, even if I find Helja herself.’

He yanked the metal door handle to pull it open but it didn’t move. At first he thought it was locked and the room was a dungeon. But when he batted at it in frustration the handle turned downwards and the door swung inwards.

Outside was a long hallway with several closed doors on either side. He crawled to the nearest and opened it. The small room on the other side was tiled from wall to floor. Nearby a smooth white pedestal bore a wooden seat with a hole in it.

‘Is that for pissing in?’

When he crawled over, the smell alone told him he had the right idea.

The rest of the room was strange. On the other side was a large wall of glass with a metal bottom. A ceramic bowl protruded from the wall, above which was a mirror too high to reach from the floor.

‘Who keeps the piss room inside the house? Filthy pigs!’

Ivar left and tried another door. This room was also small and filled with lots of large, parchment chests. Digging inside a few, he saw they held all manner of strange items. This, Ivar thought, must be the treasury. Keeping it close to the sleeping chamber was a good idea. Not having a lock on the door was bad. Whoever lived here was stupid, leaving their treasury unlocked and unguarded.

Another room contained white, metal rectangles with circular doors. More chests, about waist height, lined the outside of the room. He pulled them open and found ceramic dishes and glass goblets, little round platters and some beautiful knives!

‘Good,’ he muttered. ‘Sharp and well-made.’

He selected one with an eight-inch blade and secured it beneath the talisman's belt. Now he felt more secure.

Crawling to the furthest end of the long hallway, he tried to open a larger, thicker door. He knew that this one was locked for sure when it would not open, because unlike this others this door had a key-hole. He frantically yanked and pounded on the door. From the other side he heard the sound of key slide home.

‘Alex, is that you?’

The voice was familiar. ‘Hvitserk?

Ivar backed away to prevent the door from hitting him as it opened. He pulled the knife from his talisman belt and braced for attack. Despite hearing the voice, he was surprised to see Hvitserk step inside.

Ivar analysed his brother’s garments — they were like the ones in the sleeping chamber. Hvitserk wore sturdy black breeks and a hooded tunic. Though he wore a belt no weapons hung from it. Sweeping his eyes upwards he saw that Hvitserk was freshly shaved. His long hair was wound up on the back of his head like a woman’s.

Hvitserk gave him a long, frustrated look. ‘Dude, I’ve been calling you but you didn’t answer. I thought you said we were going out.’

The voice was familiar, but the language was not. Ivar stared at him speechless.

‘Why are you in costume?’

The strange language was partially familiar, though Ivar understood just a few words.

“Hvad ertu að gera, min bróðir? Ivar asked. "Af hverju ertu að halda mér læst upp?" _What are you doing, my brother? Why are you keeping me locked up?_

Ivar swung himself onto his backside, pulling his legs around with him. He studied Hvitserk’s face, who looked confused and worried.

‘Why are you crawling the floor in costume? And why do you have a knife?’

‘Þú spyrð mig af hverju ég er að skríða? Ertu strálaus, bróðir? ’ _You ask me why I’m crawling? Are you stupid, brother?_

Ivar spat on the floor next to the other man’s foot

‘Alex, buddy, you have to get up. I know you’re upset about the job but—’

‘Alex?’ Ivar’s lips curled as he growled. ‘Ég er Ívar hinn Beinlausi. ’

‘Have you gone crazy?’

‘Er ég brjálaður? Útskýrðu þetta allt fyrir mér núna annars drep ég þig. ’ _Am I crazy? Explain all of this to me now or I will kill you_. Ivar twisted the knife in his hand allowing the light to reflect from the blade.

Terrified, the other man stepped forward and reached for the knife. ‘Let me have that. We’ll get all this sorted out.’

‘Snertu mig og ég drep þig. ’ _Touch me and I’ll kill you_.


	5. You're an Actor. Act!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Alex is mobbed by ancient strangers in Kattegat, he finds help from an unlikely source.

Alex Høgh Andersen’s legs pumped hard as he dashed through the mud-laden streets of Kattegat. His perfect legs, which stopped passers-by in their tracks. The word spread like an out of control fire — Ivar the Boneless was healed, and it was the work of the gods!

Every corner he turned, people stared slack-jawed, or gasped and pointed. The commotion grew and more townsfolk began to follow. They put down their tools and their shopping baskets. They left games of hnefatafl and half-empty cups of ale. Cargo strew the docks. By the time Alex reached the centre of the market square, the people of Kattegat had surrounded him. Bodies pressed in, pushing closer to examine the miracle performed on his legs. There were so many that Alex had no way of escape. He trapped and he knew that meant danger.

Questions bombarded him. Fingers probed the toned muscles of his thighs. Hands clapped across his shoulders, and roars of congratulations rang out around the market. A woman pushed forward and dropped to her knees in front of him. She begged Alex to cure her long-suffering daughter of illness. Alex understood only part of what she said. And with so many people all talking at once it was hard to pick out much at all.

Helpless in only a tee and his boxers, Alex was unsure of what he could do. He shivered with cold and fear while hundreds of ancient strangers mobbed around him.

Finally, someone with authority pushed his way through the crowd. Bodies moved aside to let him pass. The waves of frantic cheers fell silent as the tall figure stamped towards Alex.

‘Marco?’ Alex asked, hoping beyond hope this familiar face was his friend in costume. That hope faded when the Viking spoke.

‘Hvad?’ Hvitserk asked, amused. He looked Alex up and down. ‘Bróðir, hvaða föt ertu þreytandi?’ _Brother, what are you wearing?_

Hvitserk’s expression scrunched in disgust at Alex’s fashion choices. He reached out and tugged on the white cotton fabric, which was now splashed with mud and shit from Alex’s run. As Hvitserk’s eyes descended he noticed Alex’s boxers and burst into a peel of laughter. He reached out to touch them too, but Alex smacked his hand away.

‘Don’t touch my dick. _Fuck!_ ’

Hvitserk laughed again as his eyes wandered lower. Then he noticed the pair of straight, muscled legs. Hvitserk stopped laughing and stared open-mouthed. Alex saw of the look of realisation dawn as a light went on behind his eyes.

‘Bróðir!’

‘Yes, I know…’ Alex sighed. ‘I have a perfect pair of legs. Dude. I mean... Hvitserk, dude… Whatever. What’s going on?’

Hvitserk stared blankly at Alex. ‘Þú ert ekki að tala sama tungumál og ég.’ You are not speaking the same language as me.

Thoughts raced around Alex's head. There was no doubt in his mind that he had fallen backwards in time. But he’d also crossed the boundary of reality into this fictional world. The crowd and the commotion. The pungent authentic smells of Viking life. The fact he was not only covered in mud, but animal shit as well. And the guy in front of him? He looked like Marco and his voice had the same tenor, but he was Hvitserk. Alex didn’t know how he knew, but he did. It was instinct, he thought. Somehow Alex had woken up in Kattegat and these people all thought he was Ivar the Boneless. 

Behind Hvitserk the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The townsfolk made way for Ivar’s warriors, who Alex had left behind in the hall when he took off. They positioned themselves behind Hvitserk, a formidable wall of steel and muscle. They demanded answers in words that Alex only half-understood.

Alex was terrified. He envisioned himself burned at the stake by a mob of ancient Norse people who had no reckoning of modern trial or justice. Or worse, he saw himself sacrificed to the gods, his throat cut as he hung from a meat hook.

He knew enough Old Norse to piece together an unaccomplished sentence. Alex decided to keep his message short and to the point. He leaned in to Hvitserk and spoke in confidential, hushed tones. ‘Hjálpaðu mér, Hvitserk. Ég mun segja þér allt. ’ Help me, Hvitserk. I will tell you everything.

Alex stepped back and met Hvitserk’s amused glare with pleading eyes. The timeline he’d fallen into didn’t make sense. Ivar had died in the last episode. Alicia was dead and Katia had betrayed him. Hvitserk didn’t show his loyalty to Ivar until the final days of Ivar’s life. Alex had no idea where Hvitserk currently stood in their relationship. For all Alex knew, he’d toss him to the crowd as revenge for Thora.

And yet Hvitserk didn’t. He took a cue from Alex. Looked him up and down once more, yet again noticing the obvious, perfect legs. His curiosity won out. Alex was off the hook — for now.

He watched as Hvitserk turned to the crowd and puffed out his chest aggressively. ‘Back off from your king! This is Ivar the Boneless. Who are you to stop him in the street? Can’t you see that the gods have blessed him? Stand down, or he’ll have you all killed.’

The crowd scurried backwards in one synchronised movement. Whispers passed between them in ripples.

_Ivar the Boneless has been healed by the gods!_

_He is a god. He told us he’s a god and now we have the proof._

_What does this mean?_

_I don’t know_.

From somewhere behind him a chant broke out.

‘Heill, Ivar Konungr! Heill, Ivar Konungr! Heill, Ivar Konungr!’

The chant grew as more and more people joined, cumulating in loud, echoing roars or exaltation.

Alex let out a yelp and rocked with the force as Hvitserk’s large hand clapped across his back. Hvitserk's expression scrunched with loathing as he spat in Alex’s ear. ‘Heill, Ivar Konungr.’ He nudged Alex hard in the ribs and motioned a path through the crowd with his chin. He then stormed in that direction.

Taking a last, long glance at the baying crowd, Alex played along with Hvitserk’s show of power. He swaggered behind him like a crippled man who’d just received brand new legs. Head up, back straight. Legs slightly wobbly like a young foal's.

_Do it, Alex. You’re an actor. Act!_

The screams and roars from the crowd echoed in his ears long after he lost sight of them. But Alex didn’t allow himself to relax. Now he had a harder challenge to face — convincing Hvitserk that he needed his help.


	6. I AM IVAR THE BONELESS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk interrogates Kattegat's latest imposter, only to discover that he is from a another place and time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To keep things fresh and to see how other characters react to the switch, this chapter is from Hvitserk's point of view on how he sees Alex. Next chapter will feature Marco Ilso's POV, showing how he reacts to Ivar.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson unlocked the door of his dishevelled cabin. Once, when Thora had been alive, he’d swept it clean and kept it in good repair. Now she was dead, along with his dreams of ever having children, Hvitserk did not bother with its upkeep. He saw little point. The cabin meant nothing more than a place to sleep and store his few meagre possessions.

The imposter followed him in to the darkened hovel. Hvitserk glared at his legs. He was no fool, and he knew this was not Ivar. But who was he? Hvitserk intended to find out. He barred the door from the inside. Then he fastened the shutters so they were free to talk without invasion from prying eyes or ears.

The small cabin plunged into darkness with the shutters blocked. Hvitserk revived the ashes of the hearthfire. He added a little more kindling and waited for it to ignite. Once the flames grew and consumed the moss, he added a large log. He took the metal fire iron and embedded the tip deep into the ashes. It began to blacken with heat.

‘I want answers,’ Hvitserk spat.

The stranger unnerved him. Where Ivar would have retaliated with threatening sarcasm, the imposter paced the room. Hvitserk watched as he smacked himself across the brow with a hand and growled. The man then placed his palms on the table and panted for breath. ‘FUUUUCCCCKKKK!’ He swept his hands down the centre of the table, sending Hvitserk’s dirty cups and bowls clattering to the clay floor.

‘I said—’ Hvitserk demanded in a threatening tone. But the stranger cut him off.

‘Jeg ved, jeg hørte dig. Du vil have svar. Jeg er ikke sikker på, at jeg har en enkelt at give dig.’ _I know, I heard you. You want answers. I'm not sure I have a single one to give you._

Hvitserk eyed him darkly. He wanted an explanation and he would get one, one way or another. He removed the spike of the fire iron from the flames and blew on the tip. It glowed an angry shade of orange-red. He crossed the room brandishing the hot tool.

Watching for his reaction, Hvitserk stalked towards the trembling man. He looked like Ivar and had the same deep-smooth timbre to his voice. The same height and build. The only physical difference being that the stranger’s legs were whole and strong.

And what about his clothes? They could have be trade linens from the southern lands. No, Ivar was no trader. He was a killer. A false, mad and ruthless god who’d murdered both the women Hvitserk loved.

Every muscle in Hvitserk’s body ached to take revenge. For Margrethe and Thora, for splitting up the sons of Ragnar and for ruining their father’s name.

The stranger paled and made an attempt to run, but Hvitserk caught him by the arm and slammed him into the wall. He aimed the glowing tool at the imposter’s neck below his chin. ‘You are not my brother,’ Hvitserk growled.

The stranger pressed himself into the wall. He swallowed hard, shying from the hot metal. He held his hands up in surrender as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘No. I am not Ivar.’

Hvitserk drew back the spike in his fist and held it poised to thrust it through the stranger’s face. It would be so simple to cut this coward into a hundred pieces. Drag the corpse into the Great Hall and claim the throne of Kattegat. If they thought Hvitserk had killed Ivar the Boneless, nobody would challenge him.

Forever in conflict with himself, Hvitserk held back. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to murder this man without discovering all the answers.

The rage within him boiled as Hvitserk couldn’t resolve the conflict. He turned and tossed the fire iron against a nearby wall. It clanged off the wood and dropped to the floor, the tip embedding in the clay floor.

The imposter let out a high-pitched yelp and flinched back against the wall. He covered his face with his hands and trembled.

Hvitserk spat and drew his seax from his belt. It was a long, thin knife which from point to tang was around eight inches. It had a wicked sharp edge, perfect for clearing a path through dense vegetation. Or for slitting a man’s throat.

He rammed the stranger harder into the wall, pressing the point of the knife to the soft skin of his throat. ‘My patience is running out. Tell me who you are and where Ivar is, or I’ll kill you.’

Panicked, the coward stammered, ‘D-d-don’t kill me.’

Though there was a significant dialectical difference to the stranger’s tongue, Hvitserk understood him. He did not grasp everything, and the pronunciation of some words was off. But there was enough in common to make important connections. ‘Then talk,’ he said, not lowering the knife for a second.

‘I went to bed last night. My bed in a different place. And I woke up this morning in Ivar’s bed in the Great Hall and now people think I’m him. My name is Alex, and I know who you are because—’ Alex fell silent. His groped around for a further explanation, but he couldn’t find the words.

Hvitserk’s upper lip curled back. A dark look formed in his eye as he took a fistful of Alex’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing more of his throat. ‘You think I’m going to believe that? Of course you know who I am. Everyone knows who I am.’

‘Y-yes, here maybe. B-b-but where I come from hardly anyone has heard of you.’

‘And where might that be?’

‘Denmark.’

Hvitserk’s face creased sceptically. He was about to question the whereabouts of such a place when it dawned on him. ‘Danemark?’

‘Danemark! Yes, yes, Danemark. I live in København.’

Hvitserk turned the name over in his mind. ‘København is a fishing village. If that’s true then you’ve come a long way. Who sent you — was it Bjorn? Is that where my brothers are hiding?’

‘No. It’s—’

Hvitserk pressed the knife harder still against Alex’s throat. His skin bloomed pink and then red at the pressure point before turning white. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘No, I swear—’ Alex’s voice pitched high in fear. ‘It has nothing to do with Bjorn or Ubbe or Lagertha, if she’s still alive. I swear. I would swear it on my armring, but I don’t have it.’

Hvitserk snorted. The fact that Lagertha might not be alive did not escape him. ‘You swear it? So then where is he, where is Ivar?’

‘Safe, I think. He’s… I don’t know. Maybe he went to where I have come from.

‘København?’ Hvitserk’s lips curled upwards with amusement. What would Ivar ever want with København?’

‘Shit. I don't know.’

Hvitserk weighed the words for truth. He withdrew the knife from Alex’s throat, keeping him pinned to the wall. Cool and calculating, Hvitserk studied Alex’s face, still searching for lies. Much to his annoyance, he found no lies or answers. The temptation to draw the knife blade across the imposter’s throat still burned below his skin. And yet, the petrified gaze of the stranger, the sincerity of his words, the strong legs and strange clothes… So many mysteries to unravel that there was no justification for killing him.

_Yet_.

‘See, I am finding it very hard to believe you. You tell me you’re not Ivar. You spin me tales of some fishing village where you have come from. You speak of my family like you know them. None of it makes sense.’

Alex swallowed hard. Hvitserk felt the lump in his throat bob against the knife blade. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me either. I didn’t mean to come here, dude, I swear. Let me explain it to you. Let me tell you everything I know. And please, don’t hurt me. I’m not your brother.’

Hvitserk fought hard to restrain his many temptations. He was, after all, a true Viking who wanted nothing more than blood vengeance. Reeling himself in, he let go of Alex holding the long seax knife up so the imposter could see the threat. He gestured to the table with his other hand, and as Alex crossed the room Hvitserk towered behind him. Once Alex sat, Hvitserk filled two cups with ale and sat opposite him. He laid out the knife as a reminder of his fate.

‘I will listen to your story, Alex. But don’t make me regret giving you my time or my ale.’

***

Hvitserk carved a crude sketch of raven from one of his father's war banners in the surface of the oak table. He remembered it from the raid Ragnar took him on to Paris. So much had happened in the twenty-five winters of his saga. Hvitserk remembered very little of the early years of his life. But his father's banners flapping proudly outside the gates of Paris was emblazoned in his mind.

Carving the raven also gave him something to focus on while Alex spoke. Otherwise the things he heard coming from the imposter’s mouth might cause him to run out of the door in fear. That would not very manly. Not with half of Kattegat outside his door demanding a glimpse of the fixed Ivar. Even now, they shouted for him.

How long had it been? Hvitserk couldn’t figure out how long he’d sat listening to Alex’s story. And worse yet, time stretched out in front of him in a saga all its own.

‘Where you are from it is the year two-thousand-and-nineteen?’ he asked.

Alex nodded. ‘It’s hard to for you to believe, I know. But yes.’

‘And you say this year has a date as well?’

‘Yeah, but it’s hard to be sure what exact year it is. I think we’re in eight-hundred-and-sixty. But time is fucked up. So is the timeline.’

Hvitserk tried to count the years in his head between 860 and 2019. He was unable to surpass a few hundred, hardly ever needing to count that high he became lost. ‘Tell me how long…’

Alex calculated the number in his head. ‘About one-thousand one-hundred and… fifty… four.’

Hvitserk chuckled nervously. ‘So you come from the future and also from another world. Sometimes you are Alex and sometimes you are my brother, Ivar. You remember praying to Thor who sent you here during a thunderstorm. And you think I’ll believe you because you’re wearing that strange garment?’ Hvitserk looked him straight in the eye. ‘I thought I had problems, but you sound like you’ve eaten far too many of the mushrooms that grow on the mountain.’

Relaxing slightly, Alex laughed along with him. He raised the horn cup pf ale to his lips and flinched at the taste, which made Hvitserk laugh again. ‘I know it sounds unlikely. And I have no way of proving it to you.’

‘You want to know what I think. I think you are telling the truth, at least in part. You speak with a tongue I’ve never heard and yet I understand you. Your serk is fine-woven and sewn with stitches smaller than I’ve ever seen. Even the look of you — you don’t have any signs of our life on you, no scars from disease or battle.’

Alex clapped his hands startling Hvitserk who drew back the knife against attack. When he saw the look of excitement on Alex’s face, he relaxed again.

‘I have an idea!’ Alex stood and started pulling off his dirty shirt.

Hvitserk frowned as the imposter began stripping. He rose and backed away from the table in case Alex had some sort of desires he intended on playing out. As Alex pulled the shirt all the way off, Hvitserk turned his face away watching him through the corner of his eye.

‘What in Odin’s name are you doing?’ But even as Hvitserk asked, the answer displayed itself to him. ‘You don’t have Ivar’s tattoos.’

Alex looked down at his own chest as if to check. ‘Oh no. I don’t have any. But this is what I wanted to show you.’ He turned the shirt inside out and handed it to him.

Hvitserk saw there was a small scrap of fabric sticking out of the side, to which Alex drew his attention. He took the shirt and raised it up into the light, noting the tiny runes woven onto the fabric scrap. ‘What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘No, you won’t have. It’s a label. All the clothes from my time have one, and it tells you the name of the maker.’ He pointed to a line of runes. ‘Here it says “NIKE”, the maker of the shirt. And here are some numbers. Two-thousand-and-nineteen. It was a gift when I went to Los Angeles, and I wear it at night in bed.’

Hvitserk pushed the shirt back into Alex’s hands. ‘Put it back on.’ His mind reeled with hundreds of questions. But on inspection of the shirt alone, Hvitserk had all the proof he needed that Alex was from another time. From another realm, he wasn’t so sure.

‘FUCK!’

‘What?’ Hvitserk asked, flinching in surprise again as he sat.

‘It just dawned on me,’ Alex replied, his face losing its colour. ‘Ivar is the Boneless is probably in modern København.’

‘And that’s a problem?’

‘A huge problem. They’ll think he’s crazy. No, worse they’ll think I’m him and they’re going to lock him up. I’ve got to get back there, Hvitserk. I’ve got make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.’

Hvitserk took a gulp of ale and slammed his cup down onto the table. ‘There’s another huge problem. What about all these people who think you’re my brother. What am I supposed do to placate them? Should I sacrifice a few slaves to Thor in the hope he sends you back to your land of Nike and fuck?’

Alex’s face fell and Hvitserk picked at his raven carving with a fingernail. Neither spoke for a long time.

‘We have to fix this,’ Alex said.

‘Yes we do. I have half the city at my door, and I have to stop them from rising up. I can’t help a dead man.’

Hvitserk watched as his words settled on Alex’s face.

‘Do you have a plan?’ Alex asked. ‘You know them better than I do.’

‘You say that in your world you pretend to be my brother and people give you money for it. How good are you at being Ivar?’

‘People say I am very good,’ Alex said arrogantly, gesturing to himself with his hand just as Ivar would.

Watching Alex's display, Hvitserk pressed his lips together in a hard line so he wouldn't laugh. Alex was Ivar's doppelganger, for sure.

‘Very well. You’ll have to calm the crowd until I can figure out what to do. Can you sit on his throne and pretend to be him?’

Alex nodded.

‘Good. But whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me. Have you ever heard of a blood eagle?’

Alex turned pale and Hvitserk sniggered.

‘Good. I’ll find you some clothes and you can go out there and face them.’

As Hvitserk rose from the table he stopped and turned back to Alex. ‘Just what exactly is “fuck”?’

Alex’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What?

_‘Fuck,’_ Hvitserk said again, articulating the word carefully. ‘You say it all the time.’

‘Fuck… fuck is…’ Alex stood and thrust his hips, positioning his hands as if he were giving it to a woman from behind.

‘Ah,’ Hvitserk said, nodding with a wide grin. ‘ _Fokka.’_

‘Yes,’ Alex laughed. ‘Fokka.’

***

Outside, the icy wind blew down the mountains and across the fjord. Pushing his way out of the cabin, Hvitserk brandished his sword at the crowd and yelled for them to step back. The people moved in a wave, glaring at the door open-mouthed for their king to appear.

‘People of Kattegat,’ Hvitserk announced. ‘You have questions for your king. I know this. He has agreed to speak with you and then you will leave.’

Several of Ivar’s guards pushed their way to the front of the crowd. They eyed Hvitserk with amusement and suspicion. Hvitserk hoped a couple of them would try and attack him so he could take them down. They had too much power among the townsfolk, but it was a matter for another day.

Hvitserk turned to the door and waited for Alex to come out. Within the space of an hour, he’d gone from wanting to kill the imposter to hoping he could pull off a convincing impression of Ivar. If the crowd detected the slightest hint of a trick, they would kill Alex for sure.

Alex swaggered out of the cabin enrobed in one of Hvitserk’s spare outfits and a pair of his boots. Hvitserk thought there was no evidence of Alex being anything less than Ivar. He walked with such cocksure arrogance.

‘My people!’ he began. ‘Not long ago I stood before you and announced that I was a god. You didn’t believe me. You were all afraid of me and you spoke behind my back about how I was crazy. You said I was a tyrant and that you didn’t want me to be your king. But look at me! The gods have healed me. My legs are healed and whole and strong. Thor and Odin have given me the power to rule you, and I intend to do it in a just and fair way.’

Hvitserk watched Alex in awe as he pumped a fist toward the sky. You would think he really was my brother, he thought.

‘The gods have smiled on me. The gods have blessed me. And now I am going to use this blessing to help you, the people of Kattegat! For I am the son of Ragnar Loðbrok. And I swear to you that I am going to make this the prosperous and magnificent place you knew when my father ruled.’

_Don’t overdo it, you idiot_. Hvitserk braced for retaliation from the people.

‘But I am not Ragnar. No. I am Ivar the Boneless. I AM IVAR THE BONELESS! And the gods love me!’

Alex ended his speech by thumping his chest with his fist. The crowd, Ivar’s guard included, erupted into cheers and roars of praise. A chant overtook the townspeople of Kattegat, as Hvitserk watched in amusement.

‘Thor,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If you are responsible for all this, then give me the wisdom and the strength to keep this imposter alive. For I am worried he’s going to put a foot wrong and there’ll be no way of getting the real Ivar back. Ivar deserves punishment. Deliver him back to me.’


	7. The Madman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is held at knife point as he tries to uncover the real truth about Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from the perspective of Marco, and gives some insight into how Ivar is handling the revelations he faces in the modern, real world. Next chapter, the POV returns to our main characters.

'Alex, put down the knife. Please.' Marco Ilsø backed up to the door of Alex's apartment. He already had a plan - get out, lock the door and run at full speed. With any luck, Alex wouldn't have his keys on him.

Marco's plan didn't even get off the ground. A strong arm wrapped around one of his legs and tackled him to the carpet. He folded easier than an origami napkin.

'Alex! Fuck, man.' Marco kicked hard with his free leg, hitting the other guy twice in the shoulder. Despite all the time he spent at the gym bulking up for Vikings, he was no match for his opponent. His best friend wrestled his way on top of him, holding a kitchen knife to his throat.

'Why do you insist on calling me Alex, brother? Why is the door locked, hmm? Why are you keeping me in here like an animal? I am your king!'

Marco didn't dare breathe. Afraid of making any sudden movements, he lay complacent, empty hands in view. He'd always known Alex was strong, but this was a whole new level. Trapped under him and unable to move, sweat formed on his Marco's forehead.

'Please... calm down. We'll talk about it. We'll have a beer and turn on the TV and forget all about this.'

The guy on top spat on the carpet, missing Marco's head by a few centimetres. Marco flinched.

'My brother, what is wrong with you?' the guy said with a disgusted quip to his upper lip. 'Look at you, you are weak. You beg and plead like child. You insult the gods!'

Marco didn't know how to defuse the situation. He'd never seen behaviour like before from Alex Høgh. Not sane, normal, fun-loving Alex. 'I know what happened is sad. But there'll be other shows, other projects. Better roles with more opportunities. But if you hurt me now, that will never happen. They will lock you up and you'll never work again.'

The face of the madman changed from disgust, to confusion and then amusement. He burst into sardonic laughter. 'Work? And in what situation would I get my hands dirty other than on the battlefield? You talk about work like Ubbe talks about farming. You sicken me.'

The knife hovered in front of Marco's face. He trembled, closing his eyes in fear. 'Don't do that. Put the knife away.' The cold metal point followed the curve of his forehead, passed over his temple and ran down his cheek. Marco tried to hold still as the knife settled over his throat and pushed hard. Then his chest felt light.

Without a word, the mass of muscles on top of him vanished.

Marco opened his eyes. The madman now sat next to him, leaning over his face.

'You really have become weak, my brother. The Hvitserk I know wouldn't beg for his life. He would look at me like a pathetic dog and growl my name. Did you piss your breeks? I bet you pissed your breeks!' He reached a hand out to touch the crotch of his jeans, but Marco's hands came down to cover his groin.

When the madman laughed again, Marco inched himself towards the wall. He scooted on his backside, careful not to make any sudden movements. Pressed again the wall, he panted out a few breaths, a mixture of panic and relief. The madman watched him, judging his reaction with an amused smile playing on his lips. Marco's mind worked, thinking up a new way out of there.

'Hey, Alex.' His ginger voice shook but Marco thought it sounded light, happy even. An actor doing his best to improvise. 'Do you want me to call Hirst and see if he'll give us our jobs back? Here, look. I'll do it right now.'

He pulled his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. The plan was to call the police while pretending to speak to Michael Hirst. If he dropped enough buzzwords in, the switchboard operator was bound to pick up on the situation. He waved his phone with a shaking hand. 'Look, I'm doing it right now. I'll talk to him. He'll understand.

A hand shot out and clamped onto his wrist. Marco flinched and yelped with the pain. But glancing up he noted the look of fear in the other guy's eyes.

'What are you doing? This... thing... is bad. There are malicious spirits living inside it. Put it down before you make it angry again.'

Marco stared at him open-mouthed. 'Dude... don't be stupid. It's my phone... just like your phone.'

He remembered calling Alex that morning, who didn't pick up. He put his thumb on the round button and the screen unlocked.

'Look. Nothing scary. Just a phone.'

The screen lit and the hand let go of his wrist. The madman shuffled back a few feet. 'No, do not wake it. It will get angry again.'

Marco saw an opportunity to take back control of the situation. If he could appeal to Alex's rational side, remind him who they both were. 'It's alright Alex. It's not going to hurt you.' Marco scrolled his camera roll looking for a good photo to start with. 'Do you remember going to the Denmark-Sweden game last year?' he asked in a soothing voice. 'Look.'

He held the phone up, revealing a photo of them both dressed in their country's team colours. They stood arm in arm, each with a beer in hand. Going slowly, he held out the phone. 'Look, it's me and you!'

Tilting his head forward, the other guy glanced at the screen as if something might leap out at him. A hundred emotions crossed his face. 'I am wearing your strange clothes. My hair is not braided and I'm — _I'm on my feet!'_

Marco grumbled with concern. 'Alex, you have to let Vikings go. You are not Ivar.'

Anger flashed across the other man's face. 'What are you talking about, Hvitserk? I am a Viking!'

'No, you're not. You're a jobless actor. Here, I'll prove it to you.' Marco stabbed his finger at the phone. 'I'll prove it with pictures.'

With trembling fingers, Marco scrolled his camera roll looking for photos of him and Alex. He showed them to him one after another. Photos taken in bars, at the gym, during film screenings.

'You see? You are Alex. I am Marco. Vikings is over and life goes on.'

The other man looked at the phone with confusion, as if nothing Marco said made sense.

'You remember the other guys, don't you? Look, it's Jordan and Ida!' He held up another photo. Two of their good friends hooked their arms around one another, smiling wide.

Fingers reached out and took the phone with caution. Marco noted how it was now the other guy who trembled and not himself.

_Great. He's calming down_.

'It is Ubbe and Margrethe. How did you get them inside this thing?' His voice shook as he turned the phone around looking for the entrance.

Marco looked at the screen. Showing him photos of them in costume wasn't the best idea. He searched again, coming up with a photo of their friends in regular clothes. Next to them was a young, blonde guy in a red shirt.

'SIGURD!' The guy's voice shot up two octaves with shock. 'Is Sigurd here, in this place, with us?'

'Dude, it's not Sigurd. It's David. You remember David, right?'

There was no response. Just a look of devastation on the other man's face.

Marco scrolled the photos again, stopping at a snap of the four young actors with Alyssa. It was during the early days of filming. They all looked young, happy.

_'Mother!'_

'No, Alex—'

'Mother is here? I want to see her.' His panicked voice resounded like one of a small child's who'd lost his parent and was desperate to find a way back.

'Alex, listen.' Marco took his phone back and slipped it into his pocket. 'Alyssa is not your mother and you can't see her.'

'Why not?' The guy in costume burst into tears. He covered his face with one hand while gripping the knife in the other. He sobbed for a seconds before coming up red-eyed and remorseful. 'What is going on?'

Marco shook his head. He felt bad for his friend, thinking it was probably time he sought professional help. For Alex to crack up like this, the end of Vikings must have hit him hard. 'I don't know what's going on, man? But why don't we try what I said? We can turn on the TV, chill out and have a beer. Escape might be the thing you need right now.' He thought once he'd calmed down he might be able to contact Alex's family and get them to come help out.

‘Let's go in to the living room.' Marco stood and stepped over the other guy, inching towards the living room door. When Alex shot him a confused look, he held out his hand. 'Come on, get up.'

'Get up? And what... re-enact a Christian miracle and walk away?' He spat on the carpet again.

'If believing in the Bible helps gets you through this, then why not? Come on, dude. Stand up.'

'You want me to believe in Christian stories?' The rage was noticeable in his voice. 'Don't you know who I am? I am Ivar the Boneless!'

Marco gritted his teeth and set his jaw. 'No. You are Alex, and I'm starting to get sick of this bullshit. Get the fuck up!'

'Who do you think you are talking to, Hvitserk. I could kill you. Don't forget that.'

'Dude, you have three seconds to get up or I swear, fuckin'—'

'What will you do, brother?' He held his hands up to back up his question and then crossed them over his thighs, not letting go of the knife.

'Right, that's it. This ends now!' Marco bent down and pulled him up by the fabric of his costume. He expected the other guy's knees to bend and take his weight on his feet. But instead he hung limp in Marco's hands. Very real cries of pain escaped his lips as he dropped the knife.

'Argh. Ow! What are you doing, brother? Agh, let go of me. Let me go!'

Sensing real pain in the other man's voice, Marco sat him back gently on the carpet. He grabbed the knife and stuffed it in the wide front pocket of his hoody. Then he watched as the man grabbed his legs and twisted in agony. It was then that Marco noticed the bare feet. They looked all wrong, twisted and bent, the ankles too thin, the toes deformed.

'What the fuck?'

Marco extended his hand, reaching for the cuff of his pants. He shot a look at the other guy checking for permission. He nodded, and Marco pulled the fabric up to the guy's knee. The leg beneath, crooked and thin, looked identical to the props they used on set. Horrified, Marco covered his mouth with his hand.

In a similar moment of realisation, the other guy looked up coldly and stated, 'You are not Hvitserk.'

Marco shook his head, face pale and entire body trembling and clammy. 'Who are you?'

'Ék Er Ívarr hinn Beinlausi,' came the answer.

The world around Marco spun. Colours bloomed before his eyes as the hallway tilted. The carpet came up to meet his head and everything went black.


	8. Time Stands Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a hilarious encounter with some maids, Alex makes some important realisations about the timeline and makes plans to keep himself alive.

Alex relaxed in the shallow tub, watching the maid as she poured in a few more inches of hot water. He closed his eyes. Deep enough to reach his hips, it was not as hot as the running water from a modern shower. It soaked the dirt from his skin; the shit dislodged from between his toes floated on the surface. It was the closest he'd come to luxury in Viking Age Kattegat.

He learned fast that Ivar the Boneless didn't have to lift a finger in his daily life. Sat on a stool behind him, a maid dipped a lump of lye soap into the water. She turned it between her hands, drumming up a lather which she proceeded to rub into Alex's shoulders.

After suffering the cold of a Nordic town in just his tee and boxers for an entire morning, he felt Kattegat owed him this moment.

Another maid sat beside him and began cleaning his fingernails. She massaged his hands with a little oil to prevent calluses from forming. When the girl behind him had finished soaping his back, she washed away the lather with more warm water from a jug heated over the fire. She lathered her hands again and pulled the soap through his hair.

Alex relaxed more and more, forgetting the stresses of the morning. He slid further down into the tub, a soft sigh escaping his lips. But his moment of peace was soon interrupted by incessant whispers from the two maids.

Deciding it best not to break character, Alex shot a deathly glare at the maid massaging his hand. 'Should you two not be silent so your king can enjoy his bath?'

His ego ran away with itself.

She cleared her throat. 'Forgive me, King Ivar.' She covered her mouth with her hand to prevent herself from laughing. 'But have the gods fixed everything?'

'What do you mean?' he snapped in Ivar's derogatory manner.

The maid pointed to Ivar's lap where, looking down, Alex spotted his generous erection. He splashed upright in the large tub, covering himself with hands. 'Get out, both of you!' he roared.

Both servants stood, but only one rushed for the door. The other didn't move. 'King Ivar, are there any other services you'd like me to perform for you?'

'What?' Alex baulked. 'No. Leave me. Please.'

The servant nodded and hurried out. Alex looked for a towel to sheathe his dignity. The maids had left it across the room with the rest of the toiletries.

Alex sighed. Pulling his hands away from his crotch, he growled at the door before remembering he wasn't actually Ivar. He was about to get out of the water when heavy boots approached the door.

Hvitserk swaggered into the room and came sauntered up to the tub. He scanned the bath, not at all perturbed by what he saw.

'What are you doing?' Alex cried.

Hvitserk smiled down at him. 'You're causing unrest again. The maids are running through the hall, telling everyone about your cock.'

Alex rolled his eyes. 'Dude, a little privacy?'

'You've seen mine plenty of times.'

'No. I haven't. Pass me the towel.'

The other man nodded and crossed the room as slowly as he could. When he returned, he held the towel out of finger's reach.

'You're a jerk,' Alex snapped at Hvitserk, who smirked when Alex climbed from the tub to fetch it.

He knotted the towel around his waist and crossed the room to a chest, where Ivar kept his clothes. It impressed him to see that the tunics and breeks fit him like they'd been made for him. But then he realised, technically, that was the case.

How was that possible? Ivar the boneless was a fictional television character, brought to life by studio lights and wizardry. Without Alex, there could be no Ivar. Without the computer-generated imagery and the props, there was no Kattegat. And yet, here he was in the Great Hall, the world around him as vivid and real as his own.

Alex donned Ivar's leather armour on Hvitserk's advice. Ivar was never seen without it, afraid of impending attacks from his brothers' supporters. While Hvitserk did the straps, Alex contemplated Ivar's whereabouts. What if Ivar had gone to the real world? What if he was in Alex's apartment right now?

Shit, I was supposed to meet Marco there this morning.

The thought terrified him.

But what if he hadn't swapped places with Ivar? What if instead he'd been removed entirely from the real world? What if he could never go back to his family and friends? To his hectic, exciting life? What if he was stuck in the filth and danger of Kattegat forever?

When he turned around, Alex saw Hvitserk watching him with a calculating eye. 'What are you thinking about?' he asked the Viking.

Hvitserk took a massive gulp of ale. 'We need to do something with your hair. Ivar would never leave his bed chamber with it loose like that.'

Alex smiled. What else did he expect from Hvitserk? He was hardly a man of deep thinking. He sat down by the fire and Hvitserk joined him, stretching out his long legs, feet resting on the edge of the fire pit.

'What else are you thinking?' Alex asked.

Hvitserk swiped the ale froth from his moustache with his hand. 'I want to know something. You say, in your time, you are the equivalent of my brother Ivar. Are there others?'

It took Alex a minute to decipher the words. 'You mean, is there a you?'

Not making eye contact, Hvitserk nodded at the gold goblet resting on his thighs.

A moment passed. 'Yes. His name is Marco. And there's an Ubbe, a Bjorn, a Sigurd and–'

Hvitserk's head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. 'Is Sigurd alive?'

Noticing the apprehension in Hvitserk's eyes, Alex nodded once. 'Yes, his name is David.'

Smiling sadly, Hvitserk shook his head. 'How is it possible? If I am alive here and now, how can there be another me in the future?'

Not wanting to explain about acting and television, or anything else from modern times, Alex shrugged. 'I don't think my home is just the future. I think I crossed through different worlds. Different realms.'

'It doesn't make sense.' Hvitserk's voice was small.

'No. But I'm here, and I think there's a reason for it.'

'And what would that be?' Hvitserk took another long drink of ale and then refilled his cup.

'The timeline is all wrong. You see, when I went to sleep last night, Ivar was dead. He died on the battlefield in England. You were there with him. And yet now we're years before that point. Freydis is still alive, Lagertha and your brothers are still yet to attack Kattegat. Have you gone to King Olaf yet, and told him to join forces with Bjorn and Harald Finehair?'

Hvitserk wouldn't have been more surprised if Alex had punched him in the face. His mouth hung open and his eyes glassed over. 'Ivar is dead?' He shook himself like a dog scattering raindrops.

'Not right now. In five or six years. However long it might be.'

The other man swallowed hard and drained his cup, slamming down on the floor. 'You know the future as well, then?'

'I only know what I've seen.'

Hvitserk nodded. 'I did go to King Olaf, but I didn't accompany him to Bjorn. I came back here for Thora. We were going to go away. But it was too late.'

A silence extended and filled the room. Alex used the temporary lull in conversation to piece all bits of the story together. 'This means that you don't know about the failed attack on Kattegat. Or that Freydis will betray Ivar. She's supposed to come to you in the mountains and tell you about the secret entrance through the city walls.'

'What secret entrance?'

Alex slouched forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The course of events had changed significantly. What did it mean? And more importantly, by coming here had he changed the story?

'What are we supposed to do?' Alex asked. He knew that posing as Ivar put him in immediate danger. 'What if Lagertha and your brothers attack? I can't fight like Ivar. And even if I could, I don't want to hurt anyone or end up dead.'

Hvitserk laughed. 'It is true you are not my brother.' He paused for a moment in thought. 'You said Lagertha was on her way home from England. What if I could get a message to Bjorn?'

Alex nodded. 'And say what?'

'I don't know. You're supposed to be Ivar. Think up something clever.'

It dawned on Alex, Hvitserk was right. He was supposed to be Ivar. He held ultimate power in Kattegat. If he could use it to stop the impending war, it might buy him time to work out how to get out of Kattegat alive.


	9. Beasts Inside the Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After mocking Marco for passing out, Ivar is introduced to the true horrors of the new age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I released two chapters today as the were both quite short. Be sure to read chapter 8 first if you haven't already!

Ivar leaned over Hvitserk's double, passed out like a coward. Such a show of fear was weak, lacking honour. This man was not like his brother. Hvitserk would have grinned and mocked him. He laughed at Marco, slapping his cheek harder than necessary until he woke up.

'You fainted like a Saxon woman. Did you piss yourself, as well?'

Marco's face scrunched as his eyes focussed on Ivar. He sat up slowly. Ivar laughed at him again, clapping his shoulder with a rough hand.

'You're Ivar the Boneless,' Marco said, voice meek and shaky.

'Look at that, he listens,' Ivar mocked.

Marco grunted. 'Don't be stupid. How did you get here?' He leaned against the wall, using his palms on his knees to push himself up to his feet.

'I woke up here, in the room with the bed.'

Marco staggered down the hall. Ivar didn't like it when people walked away, especially when he was speaking. He followed Marco, crawling behind him into the room where he'd found the knife. He sat up and watched as Marco opened one of the small doors and took out a large glass bottle filled with amber liquid. He removed the cap and swigged straight from the bottle, grimacing as though the drink had a sour taste. He replaced the lid and put it away.

'So, we can safely say you are not Hvitserk, and this is not Kattegat.

Marco shook his head, eyes screwed shut from the sour drink. 'No. We are in Christianshavn, in Copenhagen.'

Ivar scowled. 'The port of Christians?' His face screwed up as he tried to understand the meaning behind the name. 'Copenhagen? what am I doing in Denmark?'

'You tell me. You're the one who came here.

'Not by choice. Are the others here too?'

'Marco shook his head again as if trying to understand it all. 'No. I told you, the people in the pictures were not Ubbe or Sigurd. It was Jordan and David. They're actors, like Alex and me.'

'Actors? What does that mean?'

Marco's brows knitted into a hard like as Ivar waited impatiently for an answer.

'It's a person who...'

'What?'

'We pretend to be you, but here in our world. We look like you, but we have different names.'

'So, right now, I am Alex.' Ivar gestured to his chest with his finger.

Marco held up his hands. 'Who the fuck knows.'

'And here in your world, what do I do?' Ivar hoped his doppelganger might be jarl, or better yet, a king.

'You...' Marco began, then paused to think. 'You are...'

'Am I famous, well-renowned?'

Marco pouted his bottom lip. 'People know who you are, who Alex is. People support him and follow him.'

Ivar's chest puffed out. 'That's good, isn't it, Marco? People here know my name. I have supporters, an army of admirers.'

Marco's reaction was less confident. 'There's something you should know.'

'What is it?'

Ivar watched as he opened a white metal door. Inside the chest, a light illuminated shelves laden with food. Marco lifted two metal cylinders from a holder inside the door then swung it shut. He handed one to Ivar who took it. The icy metal stung his fingers, and he dropped it in his lap. 'How is this so cold?'

Marco smiled to himself. 'This is a refrigerator. It keeps food from going off by keeping it cold. That is beer, like ale.' He reached down and picked up the metal object, lifting a little latch on top. It hissed like a vicious cat, foam spilling out and over the sides. 'Try it.'

Ivar took the steel drink with due caution. He sniffed the bubbling liquid through the small hole. He raised it to his lips and took a large gulp. The cold ached in his throat, and the bubbles shot up his nose. Coming away with a sour expression, he let forth deep, growling belch worthy of the god Thor.

Marco laughed at him. 'It's good, isn't it?' He took the drink from Ivar's hand, carrying it to the room next door with his own.

Ivar wasn't convinced. He crawled along the furry floor mat, stopping at the soft, leather seats in the next room. Before he pulled himself up to sit, he gave the cushion a few test shoves. It was springy and hard to get himself up on to. When his backside touched the pillow, he sank down into it. The buoyancy reminded him of sailing. 'You said there's something I need to know.'

Marco looked down at the beer in his hands, his elbows rested on his knees. 'This place is not like your world. Here it's... dangerous for you. You can't fight, carry weapons or kill people,' he declared with an air of seriousness.

Ivar scowled at him. 'What do you mean, my dear brother?'

'In this world, people support a society that doesn't allow violence. Violent people get locked up, along with crazy people. If you walk around saying you're Ivar the Boneless and threaten people with kitchen knives, they'll stick you in jail, and you'll never get out. They'll force-feed you with lots of medicine, like poison, and you'll stay there until you die.'

Ivar didn't see the problem. It sounded reasonable. 'So you like to torture people.' He grinned. 'I can handle that.'

'No, you don't understand.'

‘So then make me understand,' Ivar demanded.

'Fine, you asked for it. But you might not like what you see.'

Marco's hand trembled as he reached across the glass table. He grabbed a small black rectangle covered in bumped. He aimed it at a darkened panel of glass in the corner of the room, which came alive. Ivar almost fell off the soft leather seat when horrifying voices came out of it.

'What magic is this?'

'It's television,' Marco replied. 'This is the world you're in now.'

Ivar covered his ears, unable to look away from the colourful, moving pictures.

People talked at him, trapped inside the glass. Was this the prison Marco described? Is this how they tortured the violent, by encasing them in glass forcing them to do horrible things? As his heart raced in his chest, he saw stone buildings appear, noisy vehicles and bizarre animals. Marco aimed the black rectangle, pressing the dimples, changing the pictures like a magician.

Men in bright clothing kicked a white ball over grass as an army roared around them in an arena.

A black and white striped horse galloped across a desert, chased by a giant hair cat.

Paintings of children and hand-drawn beasts clapped along to eldritch music.

'Enough! Stop it! I can't stand it anymore.' Ivar closed his eyes, hands still clamped to his ears, and rocked in his seat. Everything he understood about the world tore away from him as Marco subjected him to this sorcery. The supernatural came alive with light and magic, and it was too much for Ivar. He shook violently. Ivar the Boneless did not like feeling scared.

The television went black and the voices fell silent.

'Do you see now?' Marco asked. 'This place is dangerous. I need you to trust me and do exactly as I say, or I swear I'll have you locked up.'

Ivar motioned to the black glass with his chin. 'Are there things like this outside?'

Marco nodded. 'They are everywhere.'

Ivar was sick to his stomach. He was sure he'd been sent to this place as some sort of punishment by the gods. For sure, it was worse than Helheim.

'Do you want to go home?' Marco asked.

Ivar nodded. 'If it's possible.' He didn't tell Marco that where he'd come from, he was dead.

'You have to tell me exactly what happened last night. Everything, every last detail. Tell me how you wound up here.'


	10. Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex goes into survival mode on his first day in Kattegat as he hears petitions at the Friday Thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting three chapters today, so two more will follow.

On the afternoon of Alex's arrival in Kattegat, a crowd gathered for the weekly Freya's day Thing. Instead of waiting for their king in silence, as was the unspoken rule, a wave of excitement shook the Great Hall. Today, they'd seen nothing short of a miracle.

Alex emerged from the private chambers at the back of the Hall. The people greeted him with a cacophony of roars, like a hero returning victorious from battle. He stopped in front of them and took a small bow while they applauded and cheered. So enthralled were the people that they didn't notice the arrival of Queen Freydis.

After Hvitserk left to dispatch a messenger to Ubbe, Alex had tried hard to avoid Freydis. He couldn't escape her. She sat with him while ate his day-meal, asking questions Alex couldn't answer. Alex knew he couldn't trust her in the same way he trusted Hvitserk. Even then, he had to remind himself that the Viking wasn't his best friend, Marco.

Alex settled on his throne as Freydis took her seat beside him. As he raised his hand, the crowd fell silent on cue.

'My people, today it is Freya's Day, the day in which I hear your petitions and grant requests. Do not be afraid to come to me. I am your king, and I welcome you.'

Alex thought, so far, that his impression of Ivar was good enough to appease the crowd. And he was right - the crowd applauded and chanted his name. To them, Ivar the Boneless has been given a new personality along with his legs. Some even spoke in hushed tones, saying Ivar had become an entirely new man. Others rejoiced when they saw Ivar's vicious guards stationed outside. Out of the way, where they couldn't threaten the people.

Alex waved his hand, inviting the first man forward. The farmer stepped out from the crowd unsurely, not knowing what to make of the king's disposition.

'King Ivar, you sit on your throne and call us your people. Yet, Lord, a few months ago, you raised our taxes. You said us common folk owed you a due equal to half our livestock and grain harvest.'

The crowd grumbled. Alex saw this was an issue that affected everyone. He raised his hand, issuing silence.

The farmer continued. 'The winter hit us hard because we were not prepared to give up so much of our means. Now spring has come, we farmers fear we won't be able to produce enough livestock or crops.' Another grumble rippled through the crowd. 'With the taxes so high, we fear that by harvest Kattegat could plunge into a famine. You have received a gift from the gods, my king. Don't you feel it in your heart to give back to those who serve you in good faith?'

The mumbles issuing again from the crowd unsettled Alex. With Hvitserk absent, he had to find a solution for this alone. The last thing he wanted to do was start a riot.

'I understand,' he lied. 'You are asking for me to lower your taxes.'

The crowd looked to one another. Was it a ruse? Would Ivar the Boneless order the farmer killed?

'What is your name?' Alex asked.

'I am Tróndur Ketilsson, my Lord.' The man's voice shook as he wrung his hands together before him, awaiting Ivar's verdict.

'Tróndur, I have taken your petition into account. I wish to ask you something. Do you remember the tax my father levied on the people?' Alex added my father for a realistic effect.

'King Ragnar levied one-fifteenth of the grain harvest and a fifth in head of cattle. But that was a long time ago, my Lord. Your mother, Queen Aslaug, increased the taxes in keeping with the city's increase. They were raised once more in the time of,' the farmer's voice lowered, not wishing to offend the king, 'Queen Lagertha.'

Alex nodded. Overwhelmed and out of his depth, he had no idea what to do. On the one hand, Alex wanted to be fair to the people. On the other, he knew the large population of Kattegat - and he was sure he'd only seen a small portion - needed to eat. The situation was a quandary.

Freydis leaned across the gap between their thrones. 'In case you've forgotten, Lagertha's taxes were one-eighth of the harvest and a third of livestock.'

Alex nodded. An eighth was a great deal less than a half. He knew he should call some kind of council to discuss the situation and make a proper decision. But his need to get home alive was his highest priority. Whatever he did, he was sure whoever came after him would set the levies to a more pragmatic percentage. For now, he could do only one thing: satisfy the people to get out alive.

'Tróndur Ketilsson, I have considered your request, and I grant it. From this day forth, I will reduce the taxes to be equal to what they were in my father's time. May the people of Kattegat rejoice tonight.'

Cries of celebration rang out around the Hall. Ale splashed from cups as they clashed together. Even the children, who did not understand such things, jumped for joy at their parents' elation.

Freydis closed the gap again and hissed in Alex's ear. 'What are you doing? An attack on Kattegat is imminent. You can't cut the taxes that much.'

Alex shot her a smug smile and shrugged. 'I am the king, not you.'

At his words, Freydis leaned back in her throne. A dark scowl set her face against the celebrations.

Even before he saw her anger, Alex knew Freydis was dangerous. His words were sharp, not through acting as Ivar but because he knew she was up to something. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the thought of how angry she must be at Ivar. Mistaking him for the real king, Freydis was a candidate for blowing his cover.

I've not even been here for a day, and I'm entangled in Kattegat's politics. How do these people live with this amount of drama and danger in their lives, Alex thought.

He knew that Freydis betrayed Ivar for Bjorn in the TV show's story by unlocking the city's secret gate. In this reality, he didn't know what she might be capable of. All he knew was that she posed a great deal of threat to him.

The afternoon passed in a blur of petitions. Land disputes, domestic disputes, thefts and murders. He approved five marriages - who was he to refuse? - and blessed six newborn babies.

By the time the day was over, Alex was sure that the people of Kattegat loved him instead of hating Ivar. At least he'd survived and not ended the day with an eagle carved in his back.

With the feast in full-swing, Alex prepared for the festivities in his private quarters. He sat on the carved bed, taking a minuted for himself when he became aware of a presence at the threshold. Alex turned, finding the maid who he'd spoken to him during his bath earlier that day. He greeted her with a smile.

'What is your name?' he asked, beckoning her inside.

'I am Hild, my king. I thought you knew me,' she said, placing a tray down on the nearby table. It was laden with a massive bowl of lamb stew, served with two huge chunks of bread. She grabbed a pitcher and poured some ale into a cup.

'Forgive me. I have an awful lot of names to remember,' Alex faked. 'I do recognise you. Thank you for your service to me this morning.'

Hild straightened up, shock masking her face. 'Forgive me, my king,' she said with a short bob of her head. 'You have never thanked me before for anything I have done.'

Alex waved the comment away with his hand. 'It's alright.'

Hild folded her hands in front of him, she bowed in respect. 'The people say how much they love you and what a good king you are. They say you are kind to them because the gods fixed your legs. Is that true?'

Alex shook his head, considering her question. 'A king only wants to make his people happy. Their best interests are my best interests.'

You don't know how much it's in my best interests to keep them happy, he added in thought.

Hild smiled. Alex thought she was pretty, with her long blonde hair interwoven with ribbons. He almost mistook her for a free woman. Only her plain dress and lack of jewellery denoted her as a slave. 'You are an excellent ruler. I'm sure the people realise it.'

'Thank you,' Alex said. He was going to add more, but Hvitserk appeared in the doorway. Knowing her place, Hild bowed her head and exited the room.

Hvitserk swaggered in and sat at the table where Hild had laid out the food. He shoved a piece of meat in his mouth and chewed smugly.

'Would you have done that to Ivar?' Alex asked, amused at the Viking's bravado.

Hvitserk shrugged the question off. 'We have a problem.'

Alex's heart leapt in his chest. 'What problem?'

'I sent two horsemen as messengers to Bjorn. One of them was killed as they tried to leave the town. The other one came back alive. He said Ivar's huscarls did it. I sent him out of the town along a different road. He should get out alright. Now he knows to look out for attackers.'

Alex sighed and sauntered over to the table. He didn't sit down. He didn't have much appetite, and though the food was recognisable, it didn't look appealing. The broth in the stew was gelatinous, and the vegetables were boiled within an inch of their lives. 'Why did they kill him?'

'Who knows? It could be any number of reasons. The attack could have been ordered by someone with conflicting motives.'

'How long until the other one reaches Bjorn's camp?'

'He's headed up the mountain at night. It will take a day or longer over such rough terrain.'

'A day? Shit. I wanted to go home tonight.'

Hvitserk shook his head and laughed. 'There's little chance of that. We don't know how you got here or how to get you back.'

Alex nodded. 'So what do I do.'

'Keep up the pretence,' Hvitserk said. 'There is somewhere I want to take you, someone I want you to meet. After that, you should come back here and enjoy the festivities. It's what Ivar would do.'


	11. Lightning Bolt Ideas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and Marco figure out how to find some information that might shed light on their situation.

The double layer of bread packed with slices of meat and cheese rested between Ivar's fingers. Marco called it a sandwich when he'd made it. Ivar didn't think the meal was regal nor satisfying. He noticed this Alex couldn't afford servants in his home. So it was the best meal two young men could reasonably do without a feminine touch, he thought.

When he looked up to his new friend, he noticed Marco's face had paled, and his eyes expressed sadness. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hand covered his mouth.

'So you hid the dead baby in a chest in your treasure room?'

Ivar nodded. 'What else was I supposed to do with him?'

'Give him back to his mother?'

'She did not deserve to touch him.'

'He wasn't yours,' Marco stressed. 'He was hers.'

Ivar's brows knitted as he shot Marco a dark look. 'I loved him. I understood his pain. I did the best I could for him. The poor little bastard was even worse off than I am. Whether he was my son or not, I couldn't condemn him to this life of pain. Look how I have turned out.'

Marco nodded and said nothing. Ivar saw that he hadn't yet touched his sandwich. He'd been too busy making Ivar re-tell his story over and over. When Marco continued his interrogation, Ivar felt himself become even more irritated. His fingers crumbled the bread to tiny pieces.

'So when you died, it was in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you spoke to Thor. That's all you remember?'

Ivar grunted and shook his head. 'Yes. That is exactly how it happened. Why is this so important?'

Marco gave his own head a little absent shake. 'There's something about what you said that sounds familiar.' Ivar was about to accuse him of asking more stupid questions with no purpose when Marco's eyes widened. 'Wait, you died in the middle of a thunderstorm?'

'How many times do you want me to tell you?'

'Wait. Last night there was a thunderstorm here - huge, worse than I've ever seen in my life. Alex sent me a message last night. He was here, alone, during the storm.'

'What does that have to do with my death?' Ivar asked, unable to make the connection.

'You woke up in his bed, which is where I guess he fell asleep. Maybe Alex woke up where you died?'

Ivar snorted. 'Then if that is the case, he woke up on a battlefield, and he's probably dead by now.'

Marco shot him an angry glare. 'How dare you say that? Alex is a good person. He doesn't deserve any of this.'

Ivar burst into a peal of laughter and clapped his hands. 'Oh, my dear brother. You sound more like Hvitserk by the minute!' He was still laughing when Marco stood, cutting his humour short. 'Where are you going?'

'To look for clues in the bedroom. See if I can find an explanation of how all this happened.' Without looking at Ivar, he left the room.

Ivar rolled his eyes and set his plate down on the small table that sat between the leather chairs. He lowered his upper body to the floor and crawled after Marco. He hated these soft floor mats. They generated too much friction underneath him and made it hard to move about with ease.

In the bedroom, he found Marco surveying the mess.

'How much of this mess did you make?' he asked.

Sitting on the floor, Ivar shrugged. 'It was tidy before I got up.'

Marco gritted his teeth with annoyance. 'Alex hates clutter. He's not going to be happy when he sees what you've done to his stuff.'

'Alex isn't here,' Ivar retorted.

'Take his camera from around your waist,' Marco snapped, only just noticing the thing strapped to the belt. 'It doesn't go like that. You're supposed to hang it over your shoulder. Not that you understand how to use it.'

Ivar didn't appreciate Marco's sarcastic tone. His big fingers opened the buckle back up as he slid the strap from around his waist. He turned the object - the camera - around his hands, looking for some clue as to its use. Not wishing to admit Marco was right, he hung it around his neck. When he looked up, Marco laughed at him. 'What?'

'Do you have any idea what it's like seeing a Viking wear a modern camera around his neck?'

'Why is it so strange?' Ivar asked, gesturing his question with his hands. 'If this is how it's supposed to be worn, why would I look odd.'

'Because you're a twelve-hundred-year-old relic holding one of the most advanced pieces of modern technology.'

'So this is something important?' Ivar asked in a small voice, looking down at the camera.'

'Yes. Don't break it.'

Ivar hugged it tightly. Anything expensive or shiny in this place would become him given half a chance. 'So did you find your clues?'

Marco shook his head. 'No.' He lay down on the bed, turning his head to where Ivar sat, near the door. His eyes narrowed and then widened again.

'What's the matter?' Ivar asked.

Marco reached out and grabbed the Mjollnir necklace, which hung by the bed from a lamp. Ivar watched as he examined it, turning it over in his fingers. The realisation hit them both at the same time.

'The storm!' Marco exclaimed.

'No,' Ivar replied. 'It was Thor.'

Marco shook his head. 'No, Alex isn't a religious person. He doesn't believe in any gods. Nobody does anymore, except maybe for the Christians.'

Ivar felt betrayed and angry by Marco's dismissal of the gods. 'How can you say that after you heard my story? Thor sent me here. I begged him to make things right even as I died, and I woke up with that pendant,' Ivar stabbed a finger towards it, 'hanging next to the bed in which I lay. This pendant is identical to mine. And let me tell you something, where I am from, you don't have such an object next to your bed if you don't believe in it.'

Marco stared at him, open-mouthed. Ivar saw his mind working, his face journeying from realisation to surprise and then shock. 'Do you think he has some kind of secret connection to Ásatrú he hasn't told me about?'

'Ásatrú?' Ivar repeated. 'The words mean "true gods". Is that what you call it here?'

Marco nodded. 'There's a large movement of people who are becoming more interested in the old gods. That's the word they use for their religion, I think.'

'If people know my gods are the true gods, why do most people worship Jesus Christ? Even this town is named after him.'

Marco shook his head. 'That's not something I know. Maybe we could search the internet to find out how the storm made Alex disappear.'

'I told you, it was Thor, not the storm.'

Marco went on as if he hadn't heard him. 'But what would we even search for, time travel through thunderstorms to fictional places? The only thing we're going to come up with is a load of Trekkies and their bullshit theories on the space-time continuum. Shit. I don't know what to do.'

Ivar looked at him blankly, not understanding a single word that came from his mouth. Though he did agree that they should try looking for something that might help. 'Do you have one of those rooms full of scrolls - you know, the ones that tell people's stories?'

Marco's eyes lit up. 'You mean a library? Of course, there are loads in the town. There are public ones, one inside the university. I think the museum even has one, and there's the city archives. Dude, we could go. They open late.'

Ivar smiled at his own cunning. 'So then let's go. Let's find out what has happened to the me of this world.'

Marco shook his head. 'We can't go. I mean, you can't.'

'Why not?' Ivar asked, offended.

'Remember earlier when you asked if you were famous here and I told you that you had plenty of followers?'

Ivar nodded smugly.

'Well, the you of this world, as you refer to Alex, can walk. His legs are fine.'

Ivar's lips pressed into a harsh line. 'And the fact that I'm a cripple would offend these people?' Ivar felt betrayed by Marco. Hvitserk knew better than to underestimate and disclude him from anything.

'The problem isn't that they'd be offended. But if a famous man shows up crippled overnight, people will notice. Do you remember how I told you that people get locked up here for doing things that aren't normal?'

Ivar nodded, shuddering at the memory of the black glass box with the people locked inside.

'People would recognise you. It's too dangerous for me to take you out.'

'And what should I do, Marco, to aid myself in going home? Should I stay here in this strange hall by myself while you go looking for answers?' He prodded his chest with his thumb. 'I was sent here, to this terrifying place full of horrible things. I was dead. What if this is my opportunity to get back home, hm? What if I have a chance to live again or to make right all the things I've done wrong? Is that worse than a few people getting offended by me crawling around?' he hissed through his teeth.

Marco licked his lips and shook his head. 'Alright, then. We can't go tonight. I need time to figure out how to pass you off as Alex. In the meantime, you'll have to stay here with me. I'll show you all of Alex's stuff. You can see how it works.'

Somewhat placated, Ivar nodded at the compromise. 'You can start by showing me this.' He took the camera from around his neck and held it out eagerly to see what it was.


	12. Look to the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk draughts in some ancient advice to help get Alex home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third chapter update today. Please see chapters 10 and 11 if you started here.

Alex followed Hvitserk through the dark streets of Kattegat to an odd-looking hut. It's door, carved with runes, was strung with garlands made of bones.

'This is the Seer's house,' he stated.

Hvitserk nodded. 'If anyone knows anything, then it's him.' He reached to open the door, but Alex clasped his arm.

'I thought Ivar killed him?' He shot Hvitserk a quizzical look.

Hvitserk's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. 'That must have happened in this other chain events you told me about. The Seer isn't dead. Why would I bring you here otherwise?'

'I point to you, I guess,' Alex replied.

Hvitserk turned to the door but stopped and looked back at Alex. 'Better not tell him he's dead. He's strange enough already.'

Alex laughed and nodded.

The door creaked open ominously as he followed the Viking inside. The cabin, dark and cramped, smelled foul. Alex covered his nose, assailed by the stench of picked fish and meat drying on racks in the rafters. Flies hovered over a damp piece of fur on a flat stone. On closer inspection, Alex realised it was the carcass of a rabbit that had recently been sacrificed. He swallowed down a ball of vomit.

'Ah, Ragnar's sons bother me again,' the Seer muttered.

Alex looked around for the voice. It emanated from a heap of rags that rested on some kind of sickbed. Turning to face it, Alex saw that the face peering out from under the hood was more hideous than he'd expected. Large bands of scar tissue crossed the area where he should have had eyes. His weathered skin was rough and in dire need of soap. His mouth, curved down, was smeared with kohl.

Hvitserk greeted him, but the Seer cut him off. 'Ancient one, I bring-'

'I know why you have come, son of Ragnar. The one you brought with you, I do not recognise. He is unknown to me. A stranger. An Imposter!'

Alex swallowed hard and turned to Hvitserk for help. The Viking shrugged.

'Seer, Ancient one,' Alex said. 'I don't know how I got here or why I came. You already know I'm not Ivar the Boneless.'

'Strange... You are him, and yet you are not. Truth and a lie embedded on one body.'

'We need your guidance, Ancient one,' Hvitserk said. 'Alex is here, but Ivar is not. We're afraid the two have been swapped and that Ivar has been sent to Alex's world. Alex needs to get home, but we need to bring Ivar back here. What do we do?'

'Why do you think I can answer that question? I only see what the gods show me.'

'Please, we have little time. My brothers prepare to attack Kattegat and-'

'I know of the wars to come. I have seen death and destruction, but also rebirth and new life. The old goes away; the new takes root. Winter give in to summer, and summer cycles back to winter. The rotation is constant. We can do little to stop it. Put out your hand.'

The Seer held out his own long, bony hand. The fingers were knotty and twisted, the skin rough and chapped. The broken fingernails were filthy.

Alex looked to Hvitserk to help. The Viking nodded and went to sit on a pile of furs next to the fire. Alex sat in-situ, reluctantly taking the Seers hand. It was cold, like death.

A violent gasp escaped the Seers throat. His blackened mouth hung wide, and his face contorted as if with pain. He moaned, squeezing Alex's hand hard enough to bruise the skin. He withdrew his weathered hand sharply and leaned forward. The palm of his other hand extended.

Alex looked to Hvitserk again, who mimicked licking the Seer's hand. Alex shuddered at the thought of the bacteria existing on that filthy palm, but he knew there was no other way. He licked the hand, from fingers to wrist. It tasted like things too foul to name.

The Seer smiled. 'I see who you are now. The prophecy of the gods has come true at last. Long ago, they showed me a man sent by light which would end the darkness, the man himself would be sent by a god. Two have come since I saw it. Both times, I thought the prophecy had come to pass. Both times, I was wrong.'

'Who were they?' Hvitserk asked, captivated.

'The first came here as a slave, loved by Ragnar. He was filled with light but failed to end the darkness before death took him away again.'

Alex's mouth hung open. 'Do you mean Athelstan?'

'Yes,' the Seer replied. 'From the monastery on foreign shores.'

'But that was years ago,' Hvitserk said.

'I am very old. Decades have passed.'

'Who was the other man?' Alex asked.

'More recent. A Bishop, from England. He stayed but a short time before reaching his paradise. Both of these men were sent by their god, but neither could overcome the darkness.'

'How can you be sure I'm this man of light?' Alex questioned. 'You've been wrong twice before.'

'The rain raged, and the wind howled. Thor's thunder roared as his hammer pounded. You were brought here because it was his will. The gods have told me. What more can I say?'

Hvitserk shuffled across to Alex. 'If Thor brought you here,' he whispered in Alex's ear, 'it's fate, how it should be.'

'But I can't stay here,' Alex whined. 'I have to go back to my people and my time. How can I get there, Wise One?'

'The only way is to accomplish what you promised the gods. They are capricious, and they accept no excuses. If you want to go back, you must do what you swore you would do.'

'What did you swear?' Hvitserk asked, eyes wide.

Alex shook his head, trying to remember. 'That I would make things better. That I would stop the war and make everything right.'

Hvitserk looked to the Seer. 'How can he do that?'

'Why do you ask such things? I am old and weary. My time soon comes.'

'Because if I don't know what to do,' Alex demanded, 'the people of Kattegat will kill me, and the darkness will never end, will it?' Alex's voice shook with fear as he spat the final point.

'If you want to change the past, you must look to the future. All the answers have already been given to you years from now. Now go. Leave. I will tell you no more.


End file.
